Category Archives: Kids

Draft Dump: 3 of Something

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In case you can’t remember what this title means, I’m going through 10+ years of unfinished draft blog posts that have accumulated, and releasing them unfinished into the wild. It’s, like, spring cleaning for blogs.

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NaNoWriMo
Last Modified: 11/3/11

I am attempting NaNoWriMo again.

The Squid has learned to crawl. Boo for mobility.

I’m doing pretty good on my wordcount.

The DragonMonkey poured an entire box of Rice Krispies down the bathroom sink right about the time I hit word 1500.

I made it to 1700 words last night.

The DragonMonkey learned how to eat the little paper pieces from his Elefun game. He just came to stand in front of me, standing eerily still and quiet.

“DM?”

Eyes wide, he gave one of those creepy, deep, weird gag of a burps that preceed vomiting. The papery piece flew into my lap, strangely dry. He picked it up, smiled broadly, and went back into the living room.

I made a little headway today. The book’s not taking the direction I had originally planned, but it seems to be going nonetheless.

In other news, the Squid has decided to go from two teeth to six, simultaneously. Sleep has not been abundance in in this household. And if he doesn’t learn how to OPEN HIS FRIGGIN MOUTH BEFORE HE DECIDES TO TWIST HIS HEAD AROUND TO LOOK AT SOMETHING IN THE MIDDLE OF A NURSING SESSION, I’m not going to have anything left to nurse him with.

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Club Dirt:
Last Modified: 1/6/12

He was exceptionally calm in the arena.

Three years old, 15.3 hands, and probably 1150 pounds, Willie was anything but small. His name was “WillieBeACutter”, and the answer turned out to be a resounding “no”. Cutting horses need to be agile, quick, and graceful.

Willie was strong, sturdy, a little slow on his turns, and, well, kind of clumsy. Well, to be honest, it was less clumsy and more awkward. He was growing fast, and when you rode him it felt like riding piggyback on a junior high boy – he was strong enough, but he just wasn’t all that coordinated.

I hopped on him

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I’ve Got Mom Butt
Last Modified: 2/14/12

The title says it all.

Squidgelet is now officially a year old. According to all the manuals, all the chub you have left on you when your baby hits a year is YOUR fat, not baby fat.

Well, crap.

I mean, there are some good things about being fat.

I never get cold any more.

When I go see a movie, I don’t have to worry about the seat cushion being too hard – I’ve brought my own squishy seat cushion with me.

When I’m out for a walk I don’t have to worry about anybody whistling at me like they used to.

I float great in water. Between that and the never getting cold, I imagine I could be a pretty serious competitor at long-distance cold water swimming.

I do know I’d kick some serious heiny at a game of “Who Can Survive the Longest Without Food on a Desert Island”. Anyone want to play with me? Winner gets to eat all the losers! Anyone? You there, in the back— is that a hand? No?

I never used to have to worry about what I ate, or working out. I’m active by nature, and horses gave me all the exercise I needed. Maybe I didn’t look like a supermodel, but I was healthy.

Surprisingly, sitting at a computer for 10 hours a day, followed by going home to do laundry isn’t quit as effective at keeping a person in fighting trim shape.

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Up On My Soapbox
Last Modified: 7/14/2012

Seriously people… spay and neuter your pets. Also, and this may not make me a lot of friends, but here you go nonetheless:

There is nothing wrong with putting a pet to sleep if it’s not adoptable. Sick, old, too shy to cope…. there are a lot of healthy, happy, young pets dying in shelters right now. Don’t foist the job off on someone else.

Death, when done humanely, isn’t a bad thing. There are a lot worse ways to go than euthanasia, and those ways usually take a lot longer, and involve quite a bit of suffering. If you can’t afford a vet, an animal shelter will generally do it for a small donation (although you won’t be allowed in the room with your pet.) I’m not one of those ONE OWNER FOR LIFE!!!!! activists. I’m not saying we don’t have a responsibility to the pets we take on, but bad things happen to good people, and in this economy, you just never know. There is no shortage of pets in this world – there is a HUGE shortage of people doing the right thing.

Fat Cat was one day away from being dropped at the pound. Coyote was the kitten of a starving, stray pregnant cat that a kind hearted lady started feeding. Xerox you just read about. Even Comet (The Bean’s cat who finally got fed up and ran away after I brought home Coyote) was a stray – a starving, mangy, completely feral kitten that The Bean lured out of an engine block with the balogna from his sandwich.

I guess I’m just thinking about this because I’ve been trying to figure out what to do with Xerox. If I had the balls (ovaries?) I would wait for her to have her kittens, if she is pregnant, then take her in to get spayed and quietly euthanize them. It’s horrible to say out loud, but this town is crawling with stray cats, there are “free kittens!” signs everywhere, and I don’t have the funds to spay/neuter all the kittens before find them homes.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, I know I don’t have it in me. Besides, when

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No Title
Last Modified: 7/11/12

The DragonMonkey wanted to go to “Portwand”. The last time we went to Portland we met up with Jamethiel and her Squidgelet, and he had an awesome time in the park with them. He’s been begging to go back ever since.

When The Bean and I told him we were taking a trip, and then informed him it was not “Portwand”, much crying, and drama, and temper-tantrums immediately ensued.

He wanted to go to Portwand.

Portwand is where he wanted to go.

Why weren’t we going to Portwand?

“Portwand! Portwand! PORTWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAND!” he moaned at full-volume, writhing on the ground, flinging his hands about in desperation. All he needed was a loincloth and a volleyball floating away from him, and he could have been reenacting the “Wilsoooooon!” scene from CastAway.

I really needed to discipline him.

But it was only twenty minutes to his bedtime, and I was exhausted. Parenting is not for the faint of heart.

As I stood there, contemplating which corner I should send him to, the Squidgelet wandered up beside me. He stood there, looking down at his purple-faced brother quietly for a moment, then looked back at me with a strangely adult, amused look. If he knew how to roll his eyes, he would have. Instead, he settled for leaving the silliness behind him and wandered off to go play with a toy train.

Laid-back babies are really fun. Sometimes they have really good ideas, too.

Leaving the DragonMonkey to howl on his own, I followed Squidgelet over to the toy pile and started playing with him.

The DragonMonkey flopped about for a few moments, but it’s just not as fulfilling without an audience, so he dragged himself over to us, flopped down on the ground, and began his fit again.

“Pooooortwaaaaaaand….”

In desperation, I snapped out, “Well, fine. We’ll go to Portland, but then you won’t get to see the chickens.”

Nineteen more minutes to bedtime. Nineteen more minutes to bedtime. Nineteen more minutes…

He’d already been in time out several times that morning, and

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I gotta admit, this draft dump has been a lot of fun. I can’t wait until the day I log in and the only drafts in my inbox are current drafts I’m actively working on.

Also, if we’re admitting things, while it’s nice to have the lights back on here on the blog, the timing of getting them turned off was kind of fortuitous.

I could say I spent the entire time fretting over all the blogs I never got to write….

But the truth is I spent the last month nursing my busy lifestyle and a broken arm.

On April 14th my stepdad and I were unloading a corral panel from a trailer, when I realized how slippery the trailer ramp was. Maybe it was a combo of the light misting rain, maybe it was the slippery soles of my tennis shoes, but whatever it was, I realized that the trailer ramp was slick as snot.

I turned around to tell him, “Be careful! Don’t slip!” when both my legs shot out from underneath me.

My arms reached back to brace myself, and I had just enough time to think, “That’s not how you fall, Becky, not if you want to avoid breaking bones. For heaven’s sakes, unlock your elbows,” before my locked arms caught all of my weight. I think I hit even harder than normal because my arms were higher up on the ramp than my lower half, so it was a very jarring, sudden shock.

At first they thought I’d broken my right wrist and my left elbow, but it turned outo just be a radial head comminuted fracture. PHEW.

I’ve gotta tell you, I am NOT a fan of slowly typing one letter at a time with one hand. I was almost I was almost glad the blog was down, because it provided me a respite from feeling like I had to type.

Having a broken arm, and a husband working till crazy late each night at work, and two horses, and four baby goats and a full time job and four human kids and and and….

And I probably would have had a nervous breakdown, but it was one of those moments in life where people just….. It was like they rose up from hiding places in the bushes, all around me, just to help me.

People who had never been to my house before were dropping off dinners. Good friends came over and straightened the house and did ALL OF MY FRIGGIN LAUNDRY. People helped with the goats, and helped with the kids, and just…

It was almost too much helping. I felt guilty accepting it, knowing I couldn’t pay everyone back. It was humbling, even though I needed it desperately. My mom is in Mexico at the moment with sick family members, and the Bean’s busy season has extended well beyond its normal time period, and we also had the stomach flu rip through here, and the goats got into poisonous stuff and tried to kill themselves… and, and, and, and…

Nothing was bad in and of itself, but when it all added up, I was definitely overwhelmed.

People are so good, for the most part. It’s just that the bad stories are so much juicier to tell.

I stay off of Facebook a lot, nowadays. It has become such a… shouty place. I have friends from all the way on the left side of the equation to all the way on the right…. and I even have them in that same spectrum from other countries.

One of my favorite FB “friends” I picked up is some dude from Russia who posts pictures of cool dogs and angry political rant memes that I don’t understand a word of. I also have someone from the middle east who posts a lot of political rants.

I mean, I’m pretty sure they’re political rants take, just because they look exactly like the kind of rants and memes that fill my FB feed, only in a different language. I could be wrong. Maybe they’re really impassioned cookie recipes?

Anyways, I like to see the political memes in English sandwiched between one in Russian and one in Arabic, because it helps keep me from taking anything too seriously. I still keep trying to use social media for the human connection, as I have for the past decade.

Unfortunately, lately every time I log in, I start to feel a little bit like this fence:

Of course, I don’t know why I’m complaining. There’s a very simple cure, and it works every time (although I always seem to come creeping back): I delete the app of my cell phone and just start interacting with people around me.

I gave a ride to some skinny kid toting a bunch of big ol’ bags the other day. I didn’t have any kids in the car, and I was driving the “flip” car (The Bean likes to fix vehicles up and flip them, one at a time), so I felt safe… or at the very least, safeish.

Intellectually I thought it was a horrible idea, but that still, small voice inside me told me to do it, so I did.

I can’t say why I did it, except that the three times I’ve picked someone up on the side of the road, it’s been because I was pretty sure God told me to, so I did.

The kid was thankful, not that I needed gratitude. It just felt… nice. It was nice to connect with a total stranger, to reach out and give an warm ride in the cold. He said it was nice on his end, too, just to be seen. So many cars drove past him without stopping to see if he was okay.

And that was it.

We chatted about recent rains, and a couple of other things, and then he was out of my car and I doubt I’ll ever see him again. We didn’t have any giant, Chicken Soup for the Soul moment. It wasn’t this grand gesture that changed his life – he had actually just gotten out of rehab, and while I hope he is able to successfully turn his life around, it’s not really any of my business. It was just a five minute car ride to make his day easier, because I could.

I find that the more I am off of shouty Facebook, and the more I have these small interactions with people all around me, the better I am on the inside. I feel hope, and that hope fills me up and allows me to pour out more into others.

The angrier I get, the more I find myself outraged by whatever travesty is going on nationally…. the more I get mired in the muck of obsessing about how I feel about things, the less I am able to do for humanity.

Maybe I am part of the problem, as so many people seem to say, by not standing beside them and shouting my anger into the wind and raising awareness.

Maybe I am complicit. Maybe I am the problem.

Maybe it’s the coward’s way out, beneath a cloak of privilege, but I just. Don’t. Want. To. Be. Angry. All. The. Time.

I don’t feel like I *can* be angry all the time, not and stay healthy, and there just doesn’t seem to be a space to take a calming breath between waves of fury on social media. Everything seems to flow from one inflammatory topic to the next, on all sides of the political spectrum, and, well,

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So I work during the day, and play with my kids on the evenings and weekends.

Carrots was a rockstar at her first mock showmanship class.

I raise my goats, and cut the grass, stare in my backyard at the horses and feel grateful.

I read good books and bad books and berate myself for not getting up early enough to go jogging.

I fight with The Bean, and then we make up, and we lay beside each other on the couch after the kids go to bed, shoulders touching as I read my book and he watches videos about motorcycle engines.

It’s quiet, and good, and it gives me enough peace on the inside that I feel like I can at least help out others, in small ways.

I want to do more, but there are literally only so many hours in the day. So I give rides when I can, and I finally got my computer situation fixed so I can start back working on social media support for foster kids when I can, and I serve on the library board, and offer to babysit other people’s kids when my nerves aren’t too frayed from chasing after my own.

It’s not much, not in the grand scheme of things, but I think that’s okay. I think it’s okay not to be a world leader, or a political money and shaker, but just to help out in small ways where you can, when you can.

Man, this post ended up a lot more maudlin than I was intending, and I’m sure that if I looked at a calendar and added up days I would see why (would it even be a Becky post if there wasn’t a moment of TMI?), and honest-to-goodness this is not the tone I was hoping for in this blog post. I was hoping to pass along more of a “Hey, this is what has been making me feel better when I get depressed after going on social media- feel free to try it, if you’re feeling down by all the shouting, too.”

Anyways, to awkwardly change the subject from the soapboxy, slightly depressed writing hole I just dug myself into….

Can you believe Reverie is already a year old?!

I think I’ll end this post, and maybe start work on a new one that’s a belated happy birthday post to her.

It’s Cuss Jar Time Again

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“What da he**, it a bus! Look, a bus! Oh, what da he**. A bus!”

“What da he**. I stuck. What da he**, Mama. Help me, I stuck. What da he**!”

“I wan’ watch Sing. Wanna watch Sing, Mama. What da he**! What da he**, Mama? I wanna watch Sing. “

“What da he**, Mama. I wan milk. Oh, wat da he**, Mama. Uh oh! Uh oh! Milk fall down! Uh oh! Oh… Oh, da he**! Da milk fall down!”

After listening to Finn for the past week, I’ve come to the conclusion that I either need to get a Swear Jar in my house, or I need to start cussing more creatively.

First Day of School Nostalgia

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Tuesday was the first day of school.

It was more than a little bittersweet to me. This was the first summer in Oregon I didn’t spend home with the boys, and I feel almost like the whole season almost passed me by. When you don’t get home until 5:30 and jump straight into frantically cooking dinner for hangry children, bedtime and nighttime and getting up to get ready for work the next morning is on you before you know it.

On the other hand, Oregon did her best to make it feel as summery as possible to try to make up for it, so maybe fall isn’t such a bad thing. We had almost no rain from May on, and the whole state seems dry and crackly. Local parks lost quite a few older trees due to the overly dry summers, and the ground feels hard-baked beneath my feet.

I may not be ready for the return of the rain, but the land certainly is, and I can’t begrudge it the moisture.

Anyways, as I was saying, Tuesday was the first day of school which always makes me feel more than a little nostalgic. I remember lining up in front of my mom’s camera with its shutterclick sound, bright flash, and the roll of film that would wind itself up at the end of every spool. First day of school pictures are a yearly tradition.

As I dragged everyone outside into the nicer light to take my own pictures, DragonMonkey dutifully dropped his backpack on the ground and walked over to the designated picture-taking area. “Why do we have to do this every year?”

“Because….. because it makes a nice collage when you’re all done. I can see how you looked at the beginning of each year. I have first day pics of me, all the way up until my first day of college.

He lined up in front of the wall in front of our house, and reached for his yellow piece of construction paper with the hastily-written words in cheap marker. “If we’re… if we’re still doing this in college, do you think that maybe…. I mean, not to hurt your feelings, but maybe we could get nicer signs instead of paper?”

Present Becky is always willing to make promises on Future Becky’s behalf, so I was quick to agree. Future Becky would totally make one of those awesome, color-coordinated, sturdy Pinterest-style signs.

Future Becky is a chump.

I raised my cell phone, and DragonMonkey threw on his customary closed-mouth smirk smile that he always does for pictures, the one that makes him look disturbingly teenagerish.

After that it was Squid’s turn – I say Squid because that’s what I’ve called him on this blog since the beginning (when he was a Squidgelet), but he’s recently informed us that we are not to refer to him by that nickname anymore. In fact, we are not to refer to him by any nicknames. He will only respond to his full name.

I raised my cell phone, and he tilted his head back, looking at me with the heavy-lidded cool-dude expression he always likes to don for pictures.

“Squid, can’t you open your eyes a little bit more? I can barely see your eyes. You don’t have to smile if you don’t want to, but just open your eyes a little mo—“

“Bus,” intoned the Bean. “BUS!”

I snapped another picture in desperation:

And then kissed them as they dashed down the street, their backpacks rising and falling with each stride.

Like I said, first days of school always makes me feel nostalgic, and as I drove to work my brain rattled down familiar roads. Am I doing enough, as a mom? Am I being there enough, helping enough, loving enough, challenging and pushing enough, educating enough? Am I screwing any of them up? Have I already screwed them up beyond repair? Will they turn into adults I actually like, ones I am proud of? What can I improve on?

It was that last thought that trapped my brain. If you have multiple children, it’s not an easy answer. Every kid is unique. Even if I could wave a magic wand and change myself, each of my kids would want something different from me.

If DragonMonkey could reshape me, I think he’d turn me into the quintessential Pinterest mom. I’d rise before dawn in a wrinkle-free, coordinated outfit, and cook a couple of pounds of bacon and pancakes. I’d wake him with a hug and a tickle and invite him to feast while I washed all the breakfast dishes myself, and then he would get dressed and I’d spend the rest of the day chauffeuring him around to new experiences. Our days would be scheduled, right down to the minute, and there would be few surprises. Everything would be planned out (well in advance) with professional-looking calendars and well-packed gym bags for soccer games and playdates (are they still called playdates at his age? Probably not.) Upon returning home I’d miraculously produce a hearty, healthy, meat-and-vegetable dinner within minutes. After dinner we would play a light round of video games.

It sounds exhausting, but he would be so, so content.

Also, he would want me to have super long, super straight hair. I dunno. It’s just a thing with him.

What would Squid want?

Squid would want me to be Elsa:

only I’d be Elsa with a machine gun.

It be only me and him, no other siblings around, and we would have amazing adventures where we would shoot guns and rappel down walls and help people. At the end of each adventure he would heroically save us all, and most likely I would present him with a nightly medal he could hang on his wall. We’d feast all day on ice cream and sodas and candy.

My hair would also be long, and I would never cut it, because cutting hair is pretty much the same as ruining everything about yourself forever and ever. I’d be a crack shot with a rifle, and always have on fresh lipstick.

I’m not gonna lie, aside from the whole makeup thing and wearing a dress, I think I’d have a lot of fun in Squid’s World.

If I’m being honest, the twins would probably love to change me too. Finn’s imaginary mom is the easiest to understand – I didn’t even have to think very hard to know what he would want.

Finn would very much like it if I could stop being me, and just figure out a way to be The Bean, except with boobies.

Seriously.

He would be SO content if I could just figure out a way to make this happen. Also, my/ Bean’s boobies would still be producing copious amounts of milk that never ran out, and Finn would still be able to nurse all day. The two of them would live on a tractor, alternating all day between nursing and doing tractor-type stuff.

I’m pretty sure if Finn was in charge of heaven, that’s all it would be: Heavily-lactating, giant-boobed men on a variety of different tractors.

You can see why I’d rather be stuck in Squid’s world, right?

Magpie is a harder nut to crack, because she’s so quiet with her wants. I know she would like to have Mommy/daughter time without any pesky brothers around. In her imaginary mom world I would be a fashion diva, and we would both dress up constantly.

Please understand that by dress up I don’t mean we would wearing tasteful evening gowns with sensible heels – oh no. Magpie’s version of dressing up consists of layering accessories upon accessories… and also, do you know what makes an accessory really pop? Another accessory.

The two of us would adorn ourselves like real-life Fancy Nancies:

and then we would spend quite a bit of time just sitting around pointing out each other’s amazing outfits. Earrings. Yes, earrings. I am wearing earrings. You have sparkly shoes. Yes, yes you do. I do, too.

We would admire each other’s glasses, frequently.

Wherever we went each day, it would not be in a car pointed in the direction of home, because oh lawsie, “NOT DAT WAY. NOT DAT WAY. NO HOME… NOT DAT WAY.” She’s an adventuring sort at heart.

She’s not very particular about what we would do, provided we do it together, but if I had to come up with something I think we would spend the entire day swinging on swings at the park, trying on different pairs of shoes, and maybe riding a pony. We’d have a collection of items we dragged around, from Purple Bow Dog to Rattle Elephant, and we would very systematically rearrange them around ourselves wherever we went.

We would hold hands, a lot. We’d practice number facts, and sing the ABC’s and “Tinka Tinka Widdah Stah” over, and over, and over. And over.

And over, and over, and over, and over.

Also, we would feast on .99 cent bagged salad from Safeway, because she’s kind of weird that way.

Maybe it’s for the best that the kids can’t rearrange me to suit their desires… It’s exhausting just imagining it.

In other news: Reverie isn’t coming home until closer to the end of the month, which I’m thrilled about. I can definitely use another week or so to get things ready for her.

DragonMonkey and the Disappointing Dinner

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It was too hot to cook last night.

After six summers in Oregon I have finally acclimated.  I sweat and whine and flop about bonelessly whenever the sun gets too warm, which is generally anything over 90 degrees.

I know.  I know.  Feel free to mock me – I certainly am.

While that’s still a lot more stoic than most of the other “anything over 80 sucks” long-term Oregonians around me, it’s still a far cry from the Becky of the early 2000s, who would patiently mutter “I really don’t enjoy doing an 10 hour day in the Bakersfield sun whenever it hits over 102”.

Yesterday was a balmy 95 degrees, and despite a house with central AC and an office with AC so crisp that every patron who steps through the doorway smiles in pleasure, I just couldn’t bring myself to embrace the idea of cooking when I got home.

I tried asking my friend Google for help.

“Google, it’s too hot to cook. What kind of dinner should I make for my four kids?”

I did my best to keep it simple.  I learned long ago not to ask Google to consider the fact that Magpie is dairy-free or that DragonMonkey is gluten-free… the results are too weird and difficult.

Even so, the results were fairly predictable.

“Becky, you should have grilled up tri-tip two days before you needed to ask this question so you could marinade it in your fridge and slice it up today to serve with a variety of cold salsas!”

“Sorry.  I forgot – Google, what kind of quick dinners can I feed my four kids when it’s too hot to cook?”

“Becky, you should make hamburgers!  Fire up that grill that stands right in the sun with no shade and then roast things for an hour.. that’s the perfect no-cooking meal!”

“Google, NO. You’re not listening. What kind of I DON’T WANT TO COOK AT ALL meals should I make my kids tonight?  Meals for a hot summer night that kids will actually eat?  And I swear, if you recommend some kind of garlic spinach Brussel sprout salad again, I’m going to hate you for the rest of my life.  What kind of kid starts jumping up and down in excitement at the idea of a garlic spinach Brussel sprout salad?”

“Becky, you should make chilled bean dip!”

“Huh, that sounds kind of good.  How do I–”

“You take black beans and mix them up with garlic and sliced cilantro harvested beneath a winter moon.  Mash it with a silver fork and blend for 2.3 seconds n a counterclockwise direction with acai berries and je ne sais quoi and sprinkle it with foreign spices and blood of a virgin and…”

So I turned to Facebook, where people are much more reasonable, and got a bunch of wonderful answers.  Deli meat platters.  Veggies and ranch dips.  Ice cream sundaes.  Order Dominos.  Send the Bean out to grill for me.

I finally settled on cereal, and decided to make an event of it.  I stopped off at the store on my way to pick up the kids from the sitter’s, and grabbed four boxes of forbidden, name-brand, sugar cereal.

After herding all four of them upstairs into the house, I pulled out the boxes with a flourish.  Lucky Charms. Fruit Loops.  Cap’n Crunch.  Honey Bunches of Oats with Almonds.

“Dig in and have as much as you want!” I announced, gesturing at the boxes with a flourish.. “It’s too hot cook, so today and tomorrow are cereal dinner nights!”

Three children cheered.

“Wow!  Yummy!  Thanks, Mommy, you’re the best!” cried Squid.

“Ceweal!” chirped Magpie with a giant grin, and then glancing sideways at her big brother, she added an absolutely adorable, “Gank oo, Mammy.”

“CEWEAL!” echoed Finn, dragging on his high chair, trying to pull it over to the table.  “Wan up.  CEREAL!  Wan up!  Pease.  CEWEAL!”

DragonMonkey crooked an eyebrow, the weight and responsibility of his preteen years settling heavily on his shoulders.  “Really, mom? This is dinner? Don’t you think we need more vitamins and protein than this?”

“Dude.  It’s cereal.  We rarely even eat it for breakfast.  Relax and be happy.  This is a fun treat.”

He picked up a box and squinted at the side.  “It says here it has 12 grams of sugar.  That’s too much sugar.  You’re really going to give this to us for dinner?”  His gaze settled on me, waiting for me to make the right decision.

“Relax, DragonMonkey.  I’m not sitting you in front of a TV and cramming M&Ms down your throat on a nightly basis.”

“M&Ms?  We have M&Ms?”  said Squid, perking up with interest.

“No.  It’s a simile…. wait, it’s a metaphor…. Oh, I forget.  No.  Eat your sugar cereal and be happy.”

“Thanks, Mom!” Squid said.

DragonMonkey took a deep breath and proceeded to explain slowly, as if I was the world’s slowest learner. “Mom, it’s not good for us to have this much sugar.  Our muscles need protein.”  He shook his head, manfully shouldering the burden of his oh-so-disappointing mother.

“Fine. Everyone but you gets Lucky Charms.  You can go eat a limp hot dog and gnaw on frozen broccoli, or wilted lettuce or something.”

“No, no.  It’s fine.”  He poured a bowl with a sigh.  “I just think that maybe other moms out there are feeding their kids real dinners.  It’s okay though.”  He sighed, heavily.  “It’s fine.”

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For sale:  pre-teen with opinions.

CHEAP.

 

Conversations About Carrots

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“Hey, Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“If one of our horses pooped…. If one of our horses pooped….. if one of them….”

“Take a breath, think about what you want to say, and try again.”

(Deep breath in, then out) “If one of our horses pooped gold, we could probably keep all four of them, huh?”

“Son, if one of our horses pooped gold, your dad would love horses more than we do, and we’d be able to keep as many as we wanted.  Also, when we mucked stalls the wheelbarrow would be very heavy.”

 

***********************

 

“So I found a vet to give Carrots an ultrasound on Satur—”

“I WANT TO COME! I WANT TO COME! I WANT TO COME!”

“Shhh, let me finish.  Anyways, the vet will give her an ultrasound on Saturday, which will tell us for sure if Carrots is pregnant, and also let us maybe know how far along she is in the pregnancy, within a month or so.”

“I WANT TO COME!”

“Well, I would love to have you with me, but the thing is—”

“I WANT TO COME!”

“The thing is, it’s going to be a long car ride, and I’m going to spend it talking with Rose, so you’d have to sit in the back seat and not talk.  Also, when we got to the vet’s, you would have to be so quiet it would be as if you aren’t there.”

“I can do that!”

“You would have to be still and quiet and just listen, because I want to focus all of my attention on the veterinarian, and Carrots.”

“I can do that!”

“Also, it’s not like the ultrasounds I used to get when I was pregnant with the twins.”

“What do you mean?  They aren’t going to lay her down on a table?”

“No, they do it standing.  They will give her a sedative to make her feel sleepy and relaxed, and then the vet—“

“I know, I know, I know.  The vet puts lotion on her stomach and then puts the thing on it and slides it around and–”

“No, she doesn’t.  Now, would you quit interrupting me and let me finish?”

“Okay.  Sorry, Mom.”

“So, the vet does put lotion on, but what she does first is put on a reaaaalllly long rubber glove, probably all the way over her elbow, and then she puts lotion on top of the glove… and then she picks up Carrots’ tail and grabs the ultrasound wand and then she shoves that arm alllll the way up Carrot’s butthole, probably up to the elbow, and she’ll do the ultrasound that way.”

“WHAT?”

“Yup.”

“No.  I’m good. No, no, no, never mind.  I’m good.  I don’t need to be a part of that.  I think I’ll stay home.  I don’t need to be a part of that.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured.”

 

Photo taken minutes apart – what a difference level ground, good angle, and better lighting can make! Also, the bad angle shows why I’m working so hard to get more calories into her. I invested in some Horse guard weight gain and alfalfa pellets that I will soak in addition to the rice bran.  She seems to have less appetite – which would make sense if she really is pregnant. Let’s hear it for answers on Saturday!  Also, this is a really long photo caption.  I probably should make it its own paragraph, but I’m much too lazy for that. 

 

 

A Day With Four Kids

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Things I’ve Already Done Today:

  • Wake up.
  • Change both babies’ diapers
  • Kiss The Bean goodbye as he heads off to work
  • Plop both babies in their high chairs, return to kitchen, and ponder the contents of the pantry and the fridge.  No milk.  No butter.  No cereal.  No gluten-free bread.  No tortillas.  No cheese.  No … well, anything easy.
  • Scramble some eggs.  Eggs and leftover Cheerios for everyone.  Yay, nutrition!
  • While everyone is eating, go outside.  Let Artemis go pee.  Feed horses.  Water chickens.  Water the wilted tomato plants.  Collect chicken eggs.
  • Return inside.  Dress all four children in clean clothes, brush their hair, their teeth.  Occasionally scream out “WE ARE LATE!  MOVE FASTER! WHY IS THE TV ON?!?!?  STAND IN THE CORNER! NO, WAIT, THERE’S NO TIME!”
  • Drop older boys off at Vacation Bible School so they can learn about patience and love and gentle kindness.
  • Idle in the parking lot and consider what you are going to make for lunch and dinner. Factor in your schedule. Realize there is no avoiding it – you need to go to the grocery store, RIGHT NOW.
  • Drive to Longview.
  • Arrive at WinCo.  Plop one twin in the cart, the other in a carrier, and purchase $280 worth of groceries, self bag, and get an extra cart to hold them.
  • Drag out both carts by yourself, load them up in the car, load up the babies and hand them each a squeeze pouch of apple sauce.  Realize it’s only been 41 minutes since you arrived.  Turn on car and head for home.
  • Pause at a red light and marvel at your awesomeness. 41 minutes.  You rock.
  • Turn on the latest Bloody Jack/Jacky Faber audio book.
  • Five minutes from home, wince as Magpie succumbs to carsickness and explodes vomity applesauce everywhere.
  • Pull into driveway.
  • Unload Magpie, strip her down, and haul nekkid baby upstairs and plop her in the shower.
  • Head back downstairs.  Use paper towels to wipe up the visible vomit.  Toss into plastic bag, then trash can.
  • Load up arms with as many bags of groceries as you possibly can.
  • Head back upstairs.  Deposit said bags on kitchen floor.
  • Head back downstairs for more groceries.
  • Repeat a stupid number of times.  Mentally cuss architect who invented houses with a main floor not on the ground level.
  • Bring up the last thing – a watermelon – and then head downstairs, turn off car, extricate sleeping Finn who stays sleeping.  HOORAY!
  • Creep through threshold of house, which (as always) automatically causes the sleeping Finn to wake and begin shrieking violently.
  • Plop shrieking baby on floor.
  • Grab towel, go get Magpie out of the shower, and head to her room to dry her off and put on new clothes.
  • Step over shrieking Finn, who continues to follow you around the house so he can be very certain you are hearing his outrage properly.
  • Change Magpie into clothes, then plop both babies in high chairs. Swipe contents of their still-dirty-from-breakfast trays onto the floor.  Good thing you have a Labrador, right?
  • Give them Ritz crackers to keep them quiet.
  • Clean out fridge of old food, wipe down shelves.
  • Glance at clock.  ACK!  YOU HAVE TO BE AT THE CHURCH IN 16 MINUTES!!
  • Put away frozen and refrigerated foods.  Stack the non-perishable items on the counters.
  • Lock Labrador in bedroom so she doesn’t give in to temptation, eat the groceries, and force you to skin her alive.
  • With a baby in each arm, use your chin to hit the unlock button on the van keys. Head downstairs carrying both babies.
  • Arrive at van, reach out a hand to open the door, and have it automatically lock as soon as you touch it.
  • Take a brief moment to imagine using a castration knife on the idiot engineer who decided that when you hit “unlock” on a vehicle that it should automatically relock itself.
  • Walk back upstairs with the babies.  Try to tuck the keys in the waistband of your pocketless workout pants you’re wearing.  Give up.  Grab the keys with your mouth, instead.
  • Walk back down the stairs while staring up at the left sky, right sky, left sky, right sky, left sky, right sky in an attempt to keep the keys out of the four baby hands trying to jerk it out of your mouth.
  • Get babies in car seat, pretending not to notice the still-wet vomit spots on Magpie’s carseat.
  • Drive like the wind to the church.
  • Kids are supposed to leave at 12:35.  It’s 12:33.  Put one baby in a carrier, tuck the other in your arm, head to get the kids.
  • Awesome.  Your kids are both the last ones in their classroom.  Awesome. You’re such an awesome mom.
  • Instead of “hi” your children greet you with “You weren’t there to see us do our performance on stage.  When I realized you weren’t there, I almost cried in front of everyone.  Everybody else’s moms were there.  Why not you?”
  • Try to explain about groceries, realize you’re just making them sadder, and apologize.
  • Return home.  Head back upstairs.
  • Let Artemis out to go potty.
  • Start cooking lunch.
  • Realize you forgot Artemis outside – HOORAY!  She was waiting at the back door.  Good dog.  Very good dog.
  • Put babies back in high chairs.  Swipe uneaten Ritz crackers to the floor.  Good thing you have a Labrador, huh?
  • Feed everyone.
  • Ignore the “Now can we go to the fair?  Now?  When we’re done eating, right? Right?  Then we can go?  Remember, today is fair day?” coming from the kitchen table.
  • While they’re eating, finish putting away groceries.
  • Glance at clock – 1:14 pm.  Oh, Lord.  It’s only halfway through the day.  I’m only halfway through the day.

 

Things still to do today:

  • Take all four kids to the fair
  • Cook dinner
  • Take care of horses and settle them in for the night
  • Shower
  • Exercise
  • Meal prep, so I can eat healthy
  • Laundry, so I can go to work tomorrow and smell gross
  • Sweep?  Maybe dishes?
  • Evening baths
  • Get kids in PJs and in bed
  • Find pencil sharpener and sharpen pencils.
  • Track down the creators of those inspirational “nobody’s busy, it’s just a matter of priorities” quotes you keep seeing on Facebook and stab them in the eye with a pencil.
  • Sleep?  Maybe?  Pretty please, babies?  Can this be the night you two both sleep through the night?

If anyone knows the address of the person who first said this, send it to me in an email. I’ve got a drawer full of pencils just waiting to meet them.

Twins: A Birth Story

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Hey.

See that title up there?

Yup.  I gave birth.  And now I’m going to write about it, partly because I want to get it down on paper before time and sleeplessness (oh, the sleeplessness) steal it from my memory….

And partly because in those final few weeks of pregnancy I scoured the internet for stories about women giving birth to twins, so I figure I should probably give back to the community, as it were.

Continue reading →

Babies

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I was never much of a baby person.

Oh, I did the odd babysitting here and there in my teenage years.  I liked kids, they liked me, and it was easy money…. but I usually refused any jobs where the babies were younger than 8 or 9 months old.

If that sounds harsh it’s because the feeling was mutual – I didn’t really care for little babies, and little babies didn’t really like me. They let me know in no uncertain terms.

“Oh, Becky, it’s just in your head.  Here, hold her,” someone would say, depositing a blank-faced infant in my arms.  Almost immediately, the baby would stiffen.

“Relax – just hold her close,” they’d say.

“I am.  She feels like 2 x 4.”

“Just…. just relax.”

“I’M TRYING,” I’d say, through gritted teeth.  “Hey, uh… baby.  Hey there.  Good girl…. good…. girl.”

The baby would usually stare at me dubiously for a few more moments, and then burst into frantic tears.  Get me out of this imposter’s arms.  SAVE ME.  SAVE ME FROM HER UNCOMFORTABLE INCOMPETENCE!

It never failed – you could give me the happiest, most complacent, 100% asleep infant and I could have it crying in a matter of minutes, just by trying to hold it.

What can I say?  It was a gift.

The good news is that the first few weeks after a baby is born, they tend to be pretty much dead to the world.  They wake, they cry for food, you feed them, you change their diaper, and they go back to sleep.  In terms of being interactive, they’re about as socially fun as a hermit crab.

I think the reason they sleep so much in the beginning isn’t because they’re tired from birth…. it’s because it’s to give inept baby-handling parents like me a chance to figure out what they’re doing.  Eventually they wake up from the just-born stupor, but hopefully by that time you’re not as uncomfortable with handling your own baby.

Since I never had any desperate desire to have or hold little babies of my own,  I could never understand why people went so ga-ga over babies.  They weren’t all that cute, in the grand scheme of things.  They have swollen faces, they twist up their faces with really weird expressions, and they generally look kind of, well… weird.

I mean, here are some newborn otters:

ff30f24834e14b5a034cf216d2ace09e

And here is a newborn infant (mine, to be exact):

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From a purely logical perspective, I think we can all agree the otters are cuter.  They’re fuzzy, soft, round little bits of adorableness.  You can practically feel your hand reaching out to pet one.

The newborn babies just kind of looks… pink.  And swollen.  And disgruntled.  They look like disappointed, naked little grubs…. and yet when I see those photos of the twins just after they were born, something wrenches on my inside, and I can practically feel my brain hitting the release switch on a massive load of bonding hormones.

It’s not just because they are tiny, or because they are mine… I think it goes deeper than that.  When I see tiny babies on the street, I think I am drawn to them because I know how incredibly fleeting that first period is.  I don’t see a newborn baby – I see DragonMonkey as he was when I first met him. Even though I wouldn’t trade the lanky, logical, fun boy he is nowadays, I miss his sweet softness.

Which, now that I think about it, is low-down dirty lie. He was only sweet and soft for the first 2 or 3 weeks.  After that he screamed and puked and was in all ways an incredibly high-needs baby….

But eh.  It’s a sweet lie.  If my brain is going to feed me lies, I don’t mind that one all that much.

Moving on to the whole point of this musing: I never really expected to be that “into” babies…. but lately it feels like I just can’t get enough.  You’d think it would the opposite. With two babies pressed to me all day long, you’d think I would be over holding infants, but the opposite is true.

The twins are 7 months old now, and the other day I looked at Magpie as she was stretched out during one of her naps, and I realized she no longer qualifies as a tiny baby. I saw my first hint of toddler.  It’s subtle, but it’s there – a slight lengthening of her forearms, the way she throws her arms above her head like a child instead of the tight curl of the just-born.

I’m not really sure what it is, but lately when I’m looking at the twins I can see the hints of the people they will become, and it makes me both proud and nostalgic, as if they’ve already grown, and flown away….

When in reality, Magpie is pressed against me, laying flat against the still-soft surface of my stomach.  Kraken is crashed out in his baby swing – he’ll be too big for it soon, but for the time being it’s a helpful bedtime tool.  Magpie though… lately she’s been weaning her own self off of the swing, much to my dismay.  It makes getting her down for the night a lot harder, and by the time she’s finally asleep I have a tendency to just sit still and hold her rather than risk waking her.

Besides…. the view is pretty sweet.  She’s sprawled over me in the complete, sleepy abandon that only the truly young seem to manage.  Her cheeks are flushed with the heat of sleep, one arm thrown back, lips pursed in a nursing dream.  I ought to put her down.  I ought to clean up the living room, or prepare the boys’ lunch for school in the morning.  Oh, sure, everyone likes to quote that “I’m rocking my baby and babies don’t keep”poem, but they forget about the other lines: “The shopping’s not done and the bills are past due, and out in the yard there’s a hullabaloo.”

There’s so much that needs to be done, not the least of which is getting to bed early.  I’m very, very sleep deprived this week.  I ought to go to bed early, so I’m not grumpy and mean tomorrow from lack of sleep.

But instead, I press my hand against Magpie’s head, feeling the pleasing curve of her skull beneath my palm.  I feel the heat of her skin against my own,  brush my thumb against the curve of her cheek, and I watch her breathe… and grow.

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Dexterity: Day 4 of How To Be A Crappy Mom

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Everybody talks about the benefits of breastfeeding your baby.

I suppose I could go into all the benefits, but that would require things like research, and linking articles, and not getting ready to drag my very, very tired self into bed…. only to realize I never wrote anything and forcing myself to sit down and start a post at 9:27 pm on a borrowed computer.

Was that whiny?   Don’t get me wrong, I love writing… but the twins haven’t let me sleep very much the past few nights, and this is pretty much what my brain is shouting at me as I type, making it very hard to focus on my story.

Please bear with me.

Moving on:

I suppose you’re just gonna have to trust me on the benefits of breast milk.  I mean, I suppose you could go research it for yourself… just keep in mind that a lot of those sites tend to be SUPER pro-breastfeeding, and kind of negative against formula.

 

How dare you use formula. Ding Ding Ding. How dare you.

How dare you use formula. Ding Ding Ding. How dare you.

I say however you want to get food in that infant of yours is all the same to me.  Besides, I’m not necessarily sure I believe all the stuff that breast milk is purported to do.

Are you concerned about your newborn getting sick?  Try breast milk! It’s chock full of antibodies!

Does your baby have an eye infection?  Try breast milk!

Do the people on your morning commute have trouble merging and cause traffic to back up?  Try breast milk!

Anyways, there’s all sorts of reason to breastfeed your baby, but nobody talks about the best part:

Nursing your baby = Guilt-free phone-surfing or book-reading time.

Oh, sure, you could be one of those uber-moms who manages to nurse her baby while simultaneously sweeping the kitchen floor…. but why?  Why would you do that to yourself, when you have this built-in alarm clock of a crying baby that gives you the chance to just sit down and be lazy every 2-3 hours?

I will admit that tandem nursing the twins has been amazing simply based on the fact that it’s literally impossible for me to do anything but nurse them.  It’s the ultimate in excuses.

What’s that?  The living room needs vacuuming?  Oh, I’m sorry… I just don’t have the time.  I’m currently providing sustenance to my tiny infants.  Oh, gee… the older boys need lunch?  Honey, can you make them sandwiches?  The babies are hungry, and if I don’t nurse them right now, my supply might drop and then where would we be?

 

There is only one downside to all of this:  by choosing to nurse, you are kind of the sole provider of food to the babies… and thus you do end up getting the short end of the stick when it comes to sleep.  This wouldn’t be so much of an issue except…. except I get really clumsy when I’m sleepy.

And this wouldn’t be that big of an issue, except that I like to read my book while I’m nursing….

And even that wouldn’t be that big of an issue if it were a light paperback, but the problem is that I have been reading most of my books on my phone…

Which means I either need to find a way to get more sleep, and thus improve my dexterity…
Or I need to quit dropping my cell phone on the babies’ heads while they are peacefully enjoying their meal.

Not only does it make me feel like a super, super crappy mom to watch them slowly screw up their faces and wail in fear/pain…… but I’m beginning to question whether or not they are even going to be able to pass the 4th grade.

 

Rationalization: How To Be A Crappy Mom

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It’s Sunday morning. I should make everyone bacon.

Oh, yeah.  Bacon and pancakes.  That’s the sort of thing an awesome mom would do on a Sunday morning.  She’d get up, and put on her blue bathrobe, start the coffee, and then she’d fill the kitchen with the scent of sizzling, popping bacon and delicious gluten-free pancakes.  She’d probably even hum a little tune, and remember to hug each child in turn, and inquire about their sleep in a pleasant, never-ruffled voice.

I’m gonna do it.  I’m gonna make them bacon and pancakes and I’m gonna totally be that mom today.

Oh.  Wait. I don’t have any more gluten-free pancake mix.  Crap.

Well, that’s okay.  It’s not like I said the word “pancakes” out loud.  The kids won’t know what they’re missing.  I can always make bacon and eggs instead – Lord knows I have enough eggs.  With, err, “three” chickens (just like the city ordinances require), I definitely have enough eggs.

Eggs and bacon is still a really awesome thing on a Sunday morning. It’s an American staple – who doesn’t love it?  Bacon and eggs.  I’m gonna be that awesome mom who makes the whole house smell like bacon and eggs on Sunday morning.

Except….. except I can’t find any bacon in the fridge.  Or the freezer.  Or the basement freezer.

Well, crap.

Eggs and…. eggs?  Or maybe Miguitas – eggs and tortillas?  How many times have I cooked that this week? Will they go for it?  I glance at the sleep-tousled boys in the living room, lounging in their mismatched pajamas as they stare blankly at cartoons.

“Hey boys… you guys want Miguitas for breakfast?  Or do you just want me to make them over-easy?”  I take a moment and pride myself in the way I managed to word that – it gives them the illusion of choice, but still leaves them without a real decision.  If that’s not being a real mom, I don’t know what is.

Neither boy bothers to take their eyes off the flickering screen long enough to respond.

“Chicken nuggets.  I want chicken nuggets.”

“Me too!  I want chicken nuggets, too!”

What?  Eww.  Gross.  “Chicken nuggets aren’t a breakfast food,” I say. “How about cereal? Cereal and milk?”

“No, thank you,”  DragonMonkey says, all pleasant politeness.

“Yeah, no thank you,” Squid echoes.  “Can I please have chicken nuggets?”

“Guys.  This is Sunday. You can’t have…. it’s just….”  I stare at them, frustrated.  It’s Sunday morning.  We’re supposed to be eating pancakes and eggs… or at the very least bacon and eggs. You can’t have a beautiful, Norman-Rockwell style Sunday morning with frozen gluten-free chicken nuggets heated up in the microwave on scratched Ikea plastic plates.

This morning was supposed to look like this… only with pancakes instead of turkey.

I mean, technically you can, but nobody is gonna be painting a picture of it any time soon.

I open my mouth once again, drawing breath to tell them no, that they can’t have chicken nuggets for breakfast, that it’s trashy and gross, and terrible nutrition, and we have higher standards than that, and….

… and at least it has protein?  I mean, what exactly are pancakes, anyways, but flat, uninteresting doughnuts that you pour sugary maple syrup over?  Chicken nuggets don’t have a high sugar content.  I mean, it’s not like they’re asking to shoot up heroin, or juggling puppies, right?  It’s just chicken nuggets…. and gluten-free ones at that.

Surely that gives me some kind of bragging power?  I mean, sure, we’re not eating gluten-free by choice, but the fact that it’s gluten-free (and therefore “healthy”) balances out the fact that it’s 7:30 in the morning and I’m pouring ketchup as dipping sauce for my kids’ breakfast, right?

Right?

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