How Babies Get Their Protein

After work Tennisfiend and I spend quality time with Tyoma in “my” bedroom. Tyoma scrambles about, trying to stand or yank books from the shelves. One of us reads or works on the computer as the other one keeps an eye on Tyoma. Since the cricket infestation, we vigilantly vacuum up little cricket carcasses as they appear.

As I checked my email Tennisfiend called out a loud “STOP” (Russians say it with a hard O as in boat). To me he said, “Quick, he’s about to put an insect leg in his mouth. In a flash I was out of my seat and on the floor prying the leg out of his right hand. I heard another thunderous “STOP!” from Tennisfiend. “The other hand! The other hand!”

Our jolly baby, much amused by the commotion, was laughing as he attempted to stuff the contents of his left hand in his mouth. As I pulled his hand from his mouth I got a glimpse of his intended snack and screamed. A juicy, thumb-sized wolf spider quivered its last. My scream startled Tyoma and annoyed Tennisfiend, who scooped the crying baby off the floor with a theatrical “Gospedi!”   (Oh Lord!)

Poop Day

Moms learn quickly to be suspicious when little ones are too quiet. They have clearly found an entirely new and fascinating way to cause trouble and chances are, you will have one heck of a clean-up to do.

Tyoma played quietly as I pumped his lunchtime breast milk. I could see and hear him happily entertaining himself in the baby gulag. I finished up, trotted into the kitchen, put on water for coffee and fixed breakfast. He continued to babble happily—no shrieks, yells or hoots (his latest milestone is making an awful racket). As I walked past the gulag on the way to the bathroom I received the shock of my life. 

Unprecedented Monster Poop Explosion--all over the playpen. I was so astounded I didn’t even speak. Tyoma looked up at me and smiled sweetly, waving the same little poopy hands that had smeared a foul greenish-yellow trail around the sides of the gulag. His arms, elbows, legs and knees were poopy. The track they left on the white matelasse bedspread under the gulag looked like a gigantic bull’s eye target done in poo. He had poop on his feet, face and neck. Miraculously, his hair was spared.

Did I mention his toys were poopy? Oversize fabric blocks, talking tops, musical balls, and teethers streaked with brown.  Oh, Lord. I tried to change him and clean him up in the nursery but he smeared poopy rainbows on the wall. I scrambled to clean him up in the shower, but quit when I could not find my shower chair. With the baby bathtub in the kitchen sink, I managed to hose the poo off with the kitchen sprayer. To squeals of delight, I changed him on the nursery floor since the changing table was a disaster area.

I called mom to watch baby as I cleaned up and I spent the next two hours hard at work. I disassembled the gulag, hauled it out to the driveway, scoured it thoroughly, rinsed it with the pressure washer and left it to bake in the 100 plus afternoon sun. I defy poo germs to survive that!  Similarly I washed toys, blankets and the gulag matelasse. I scrubbed a few spots on the carpet and called it a day.

E.T.A. 6-30-2007

A mini-poo tsunami was caught before a full gulag contamination. Turns out Tyoma has been ripping off the right hand diaper tab as he is being changed, thus causing the diaper contents to leak. So, when Tennisfiend we change diapers, we make sure both tabs are on firmly.

$@&%!!! Swamp Cooler

What a day. We've been having problems with our swamp cooler since the start of the season.

On, off. On....Off.  Algae smell. Algae smell. Hot air. Off. Blech.

Marilyn Manson said it best, "I don't have enough middle fingers."

Family Heirlooms

 

When I visited with the folks today, Dad brought out a surprise wrapped in faded tissue. His baby spoon and fork! I should have put a penny down for scale, but they are the sweetest little things! Dad said that they've been in his family since the turn of the century. I'll probaby look up the info on the reverse side of the utensils and geek out later. :D

Bug Jar

About a month ago our Dustbuster died. Normally, we’d just buy a new handvac without a second thought. However, since our income is only a fraction of what it once was, a Dustbuster would be an extravagance. So I pick up all the dead crickets, roaches, beetles, sunspiders and scorpions by hand. Brrrrrr.

Last night, after picking up the tenth bug of the day, I made a bet with my husband. If I could collect forty bugs in a week, he would buy me a new Dustbuster. Day one was a smashing success. I collected six crickets, a roach, two spiders and four click beetles for my bug jar.

Day two was leaner—three crickets and two click beetles. Day three I amassed two click beetles and a spider. Day four I got desperate. That evening, I saw a roach in the sunroom. Since it wasn’t officially dead, I smacked it with my shoe to add to the bug jar. Day five I awoke to find that last night’s roach was simply addled and not dead. He spent the balance of the night eating the other bugs I collected. Wah!

Day six Mom and Dad showed up with a brand new Dustbuster. I am totally spoiled!

Ten Months Old!

 Holy cow! Tyoma is only ten months old, but in this photo he looks much older! Like, "Give me the car keys" older. It must be me. I'm recovering from an energy zapping flu with much help. Tennisfiend stayed home from work on Tuesday to care for baby while I slept and slept, complaining just a little (neck rubs=10,000 antibiotics). Mom brought daily crates of soup, Yoplait and Jello, taking over for Tennisfiend as needed. I had to cancel this weekend's pool party with Ewbliette and hubby. Hey, the heat isn't going anywhwere so we'll reschedule soon.

Blah.

p>Feeling tired today. What did I do? Worked on TF's cover letter and miscellaneous stuff. Think I'm getting a tummy flu.

Happy Father's Day!

Dad in the fifties:

And me as a baby:

Note that I inherited a goofier version of Dad’s ears!

I was hoping to post some of Dad’s adventure pics, but unfortunately they are hidden somewhere at my folks place. I’ll be sure to add them in the future.

Anyway, Tyoma and I dropped by to wish Dad a happy Father’s Day. We relaxed under the shady Mulberry, discussing the latest discoveries in paleontology, specifically the feathered juvenile T-Rexes unearthed in China. After an exchange of opinions on dinosaurs and birds, Dad took off his naturalist cap and brought out the guitar. Tyoma enjoyed his serenade and promptly conked out.

Later in the evening, Tennisfiend asked me if I had any special childhood memories about Dad. I rambled on for at least twenty minutes, until I came across the memory. I was six and felt very sad about the loss of our two weimarainers. We lost them over two years ago. I was younger when Mom told me their spirits were happy, chasing lizards in the desert. Now, I was unconvinced and full of questions, “Why couldn’t I see their spirits when we were in the desert?” Bless her for not saying “Spirits are invisible.” She sent me in for a talk with Dad.

He explained his beliefs: All living things are a part of the universe. People really don’t know for sure what happens when we die, but many think that we return somehow. Some think we return as spirits, angels or even as energy that the natural world re-uses. The only thing we know for sure is that we remember the people and animals we love. By remembering, a person can keep their loved ones close by, with us always.

This might have seemed rather heavy for a six year old, but it was honest, simply stated and it made me feel better. Ultimately, that conversation shaped the outlook of my life. Thank you, Dad.

John Waters Gave me a Divine Nightmare

I watched Female Trouble last night. Too funny. Too vulgar. Too...real? Anyway. I was a fan of Divine long before I ever heard of John Waters. Sure, Hairspray was cool, but I only watched it for Divine. She was beautiful, brave and brilliant. An old VCR tape in my collection features her music videos, complete with interviews. Her soft breathy voice barely concealed the intelligent person behind it. How sad she left us so soon.

Because of Divine I watched John Waters movies. Initially, I considered them too lowbrow for my rarefied tastes. Would someone please pop some Herzog in the DVD before I totally barf?! But seriously, how can you laugh your ass off at Southpark and not love John Waters? Getting older can be kinda cool.

I’ve revisited his films with delight, embracing my inner white trash. Last night I chuckled and guffawed my way through Female Trouble. And I had such a nightmare! Hopefully, you’ve seen the movie, so you’ll understand where I’m coming from.

My hair was fantastically coiffed by my stylist Rodeyo, who bears and uncanny (but slimmer) resemblance to Divine. The voice match, BTW, is dead on. Continuing with my dream. I waited an hour “checking out” from a prestigious salon in a line that was half farmer’s market and half posh department store,. The proprietress (Mrs. Dasher) overcharged me ten dollars, to which I protested. She called forth a sinister, but Monty Pythonesque Spanish Inquisition crew to harass me for the money.

My punishment was not the comfy chair, but banishment from the stylish salon. In my dream, I could conjure no greater punishment than being forbidden to visit Rodeyo for a periodic haircut and highlight (yes, he's that good!). Horrified by my own shallowness, I woke up. This is probably unrelated, but today at the local grocery store, I tracked down a sales associate to insist on a reduced price for brand name milk ($2.99) since the store brand on sale ($1.79) had run out.

Clothing Crisis

You know that size you reach when your big girl pants are too loose, but you can’t comfortably fit into all those cute shorts you bought when you were skinny (skinny, being a relative term)?

Well, I’m there. A year before I got pg in 2005, I gave up sweets and refined foods. Over the summer I dropped over twenty pounds—I was again high school skinny. To celebrate, I bought lots of adorable outfits to last me, eh, well, a lifetime. Or until I put on over ten pounds.

Then I got pregnant and indulged in more cute outfits (thanks Mom and Dad!). After the birth, I successfully managed to loose all but ten pounds of my weight by November. In January, I went on Lexapro for PPD. Hello weight gain!

Except for periodic sweets binges the month Fontessa was here (brrr), I’ve eaten very sensibly. Nonetheless, I put on an additional fifteen pounds with the Lexapro. The only things I could wear were my baggy maternity pants and shorts, since I had optimistically tossed out my old comfy bottoms.

That is until I found a dusty rubber maid box in the attic! Yay! Hidden in it were several pairs of in-between shorts. Hurrah! What a godsend! My butt feels freeeee!

"Percy...Who's Queen?"

Thank you clarke-mas for the Amazon gift certificate! I picked out:

 

 

1. Black Adder II For shame! A shame that it has taken me this long to upgrade my Black Adder collection to DVD! Tennisfiend and I watched three episodes last night. “You have a woman’s purse, Milord..." Hee!
2. E.F. Benson A book of Short horror fiction by on of my favorite Victorian authors, E.F. Benson. This will replace the battered mass market paperback mouldering by my bedside.
3. Brian Hodge Another book of short horror fiction! This one is from a smaller press, Nightshade Books. I've read Hodge anthologized, but this is the first collection of his I've gotten my hands on. Yay!  
4. Horror Writers Association: How to Write Horror I won't be publishing horror fiction anymore than Clarke-mas will be launching a (full scale!) U-boat.

Coming soon..Adventure Jill's House of Wax Hoppy Toads.Wish me luck!

Nopalitos!

I excised twenty pounds of cactus by from the chain link fence around the pool today. I should have made a nopalito salad, the leaves were so tender and fresh. I fear, however, that we would perish from insecticidal poisoning since I've been blasting the resident black widows in that area a bit too frequently.

We've been teaching Tyoma about animals. Here's his tiger impression. :)

Baby Books!

Yay Mom and Dad! Much thanks to them for the load of baby books they bought for Tyoma! After reading Violet's House and every Priddy cloth book evah, ten thousand times over, I am so grateful to have something new to look at! Thanks a million!

1. Quiet/Loud What a sweet little book on opposites! It’s funny and very colorful.
2. Big/Little By the same folks as Quiet/Loud. Bright, playful images.
3. Little Rabbit Lost A board book with a story about getting lost and coming home again.
4. I Stink A story about a dump truck’s daily duties. Another colorful, funny book.
5. Goodnight Gorilla Probably my favorite book. Goodnight, Gorilla is an extended book of pictures that allows you to tell your own story. The illustrations are vivid and are absolutely precious!

French Open

Today was insane. It started out at six a.m. with a fussy baby. I put him down learly ast night since he skipped a nap and  because I wanted to race over to Ewbliette and Brotherkurt’s, A.S.A.P for game night. Of course, I raced back home less than two hours later, but that’s another entry. I promised to be up at the crack of dawn this morning to provide TF with annoyance-free French Open viewing.

Transfixed by the match, Tennisfiend rooted for the Swede, Roger Federer. This was a much anticipated match in our household. TF fretted with the rake out back during commercial breaks and coughed nervously during important points. Tension is contagious to me, so I stayed well away. Despite my best efforts to keep baby quiet, he fussed noisily and skipped his morning nap. At lunch I noticed that two more teeth were coming in. That is a total of SIX teeth in the past three weeks!!! Yikes!

Exhausted by the match and dissapointed by Federer's loss, TF took a long afternoon nap, while I coped with squirmy baby. It was too hot to read or play in the house, so we trekked outdoors and played near a sprinkler. After TF woke up, I plunked naked baby in the issy-pissy pool and patted papa on the head, saying, “He’s all yours.”

The swim distracted baby and relieved mama. I used the time to puree baby food and listen to music. Post swim activity included MORE fussing followed by a gargantuan poop; necessitating two for clean up (unless I hosed baby off by the roses). After I put baby down to sleep, I drove to the local specialty store and bought sushi and white wine. Ahhhh!

Zonked Out

I was a big ole party pooper tonight. After shamelessly inviting myself to Ewbliette’s Friday night, I showed up, drank a glass of wine, gabbed halfheartedly and whizzed home. Earlier, I was so psyched to get out! I pretty much tossed the baby in the crib with one hand while picking up the car keys with the other. 

But the hot drive over made me drowsy, despite the blasting AC and blaring radio. After I arrived, I flopped down on the couch next to an overworked and exhausted Rodeyo. We mindlessly watched a re-run of Shrek on TBS, feeling sleepier by the second. Chuck joined us a few minutes later, enviably chipper. He sat between Rodeyo and me, making pleasant conversation. I perked up when I recognized that his manner of speaking was oddly familiar. He spoke with an uncommon clipped precision. His words were distinctly enunciated (especially the t’s and s’s) and the cadence of his speech strongly resembled--Crispin Glover! Joy!

I’ve run into Chuck about a half dozen times, but this was the first time that I really noticed him. A quiet, bespectacled member of the high IQ crowd (150), Chuck has genuine amber eyes that coordinate unexpectedly with his orange hair, which he wears braided tightly to the nape of his neck. He is lanky, mustachioed and dresses conservatively in chinos and a worn button-down shirts. Upon realizing that I was scrutinizing him, he became embarrassed and flustered. I quickly noted that his ancestors could have been Vikings, and politely moved my focus to the lovely glass of wine Ewbliette brought me.

With wine bottle in hand, Ewbliette and I retired to the back porch. She discussed her work as an accountant at NMSU, including the impending close of the fiscal year, complete with associated deadlines and psychotic co-worker reactions. Naturally, her work has been outrageously draining, and included several hours of additional work earlier this morning and afternoon. Poor tired girl!

Me, well, I was sooo zonked. The baby is teething and I am coping with the psychological effects the dual loss of our television (broken!) and my computer (Tennisfiend decided to host his Russian DVD festival on my computer)! Usually the hub of great conviviality, the back porch turned into a scene from Shaun of the Dead.

So, Ewbliette looked at me and I looked at her and we simultaneously decided to get together later, when we had more energy. Sometimes you just need to breathe the same air as your best friend and then go home and sleep. Ironically, we both perked up as she walked me to my truck, chatting amiably for several minutes. The subject of Chuck came up. She said “You know what surprised me about him? He’s only 21 years old!” To which I replied, “Whaa?!” Maybe it’s the mustache or slightly receding hairline, but I would have sworn he was in his early thirties. Whoa.

Dogs Are Pragmatic

Since baby was born, Misty has spent time at my parent’s place. She has close to an acre of sloped grassy yard to roam and cats galore to chase, not to mention the extra attention Mom and Dad lavish on her.

Misty’s first post-baby stay was almost three months long, punctuated by brief visits home. Since then, we have worked out a “visitation” schedule. Weekdays, Misty stays home with us and on weekends she stays with my folks. When I brought out the leash Friday morning, Misty did her usual berserk dance, following me impatiently until I buckled her in the front seat of my SUV (yes, she wears a doggie seatbelt).

Today was different from the scheduled doggie drop-off.  I hauled both baby and his carriage along for a stroll in my folk’s shady green backyard.  When I arrived, Dad was perched under the colossal mulberry tree, playing guitar and singing Tennessee folk songs.

My experiment with the stroller failed. Baby was not interested in touring the expanse of grass and trees. Instead, he insisted on sitting in grandma’s lap. Wearing a look of intense concern, the little one watched grandpa strum the guitar and sing.

All the while Misty ran and ran and ran, until her black flecked tongue quadrupled in size, hanging out of her mouth sideways. She eventually flopped down between mom and me, looking contented. It seemed perfectly sensible that the highlight of her week is a visit with my parents.

I remembered growing up in this huge, green backyard. I cavorted and collapsed much like Misty. Life is so peaceful under the cool shade of the mulberry; I think we’ll visit more often. 

Finger Dream, ETA

The underlying tension from my dream probably stems from Tennisfiend’s work trouble. A few days ago, we discussed his disapproval of board members taking ridiculous risks.

Their strategy has already landed the company in serious trouble. Some workers have been going without proper pay checks for the past four months (us for example) and vital employees are looking for other jobs; their absence will bring the company down. 

We still wrangle with the decision to stay or go. TF has decided to do the hard thing and remain with the company indefinitely, but his resume is up to date just in case. I guess this is the amputation choice disguised. Will the future re-arrange itself to make our life more pleasing?

Finger Dream

Last night I dreamed that the top joint of my left index finger was cut off. The details were fuzzy—but I knew the amputation was unintentional. I found my finger standing upright on the kitchen table. Unperturbed, I sealed the finger in saran wrap and placed it in the refrigerator next to baby’s breast milk. The strangely bloodless stump on my hand I secured with a rubber band from the kitchen junk drawer.

Indistinct, unconnected and disturbing events unfolded.  A week passed. Then I mysteriously managed to severe the remainder of my finger.  

At last I became alarmed. Dialing my doctor, I removed the first segment from of the refrigerator to examine it. I was surprised by its freshness. It looked pink and living. I connected the two segments on the counter top as I waited for my doctor to answer my call. My previous unnatural calm returned as I explained my situation, questioning him in particular about being able to re-attach the finger that had spent a week in the cooler.

Brusquely, he advised me to chuck my finger parts. Although I could re-attach both segments successfully, the surgery would probably damage my lungs. I remember mulling over his advice and coming to the conclusion that my lungs were clearly more vital than my vanity.

Yet, as I examined my left hand (which had miraculously healed), I pictured all the people I knew with missing fingers and shuddered. Sinister unbalanced people lacked digits, like my deranged cousin who blew off two fingers playing with gunpowder. On the bright side, I thought, cartoon characters frequently had only four fingers, and no one seemed to notice, so perhaps no one would notice my missing index finger either.

The next several minutes of my dream were a montage of cartoon characters, fingers aesthetically relocating themselves on my hand, and my formerly intact hand. The internal debate between having an intact or amputated finger circled in my brain: guaranteed health and disfigurement or a lovely hand and lung trouble? Just as I decided to forgo the surgery, I woke up. 

Mmmwwah!

That was a big kiss I'm sending to brotherkurt and ewbliette! Thank you guys for the lovely bottle of red wine you picked up for us on your honeymoon! We opened it last night to celebrate the aggravation of parenthood.

It was exceptionally delicious and refreshingly relaxing! We want to also thank brotherkurt for helping E proofread his resume. Yay! Now if only ewbliette would hurry up and win the lottery she could hire him! We love you guys!

Baby Stuff

Return of the Mommy-Blog! Squirmer missed his morning nap and fussed until he conked out for an extended afternoon nap. Tooth pain was certainly the culprit. His second nap was an Elysian respite for mum and dad. I took this time to relocate his baby play arena in the sunroom by my computer, imagining that he would cry less if I was in full sight.

Anyway, this was a brief and annoying experiment. The acoustics of the sunroom are such that baby seems to be positioned two inches from my ear with a megaphone. I found that each minute in the playpen incrementally boosted by aggravation to an unprecedented level of pissiness. The playpen is back in the library.

The Mystery of Misty's Mishbehavior

Misty has been a bad dog. This past week, her old grass eating habits have reemerged and her barking has been almost unmanageable. In an unprecedented act of rudeness, she left a huge round wet spot in front of the bedroom door.

Usually, doggie transgressions stem from doggie angst. Why would her nerves be a wreck? Is the neighbor’s bloated tabby tomcat taunting her? Are the adolescent boys who peep at me throwing rocks again? Did the blue moon call forth an ancient and eldritch beast that exclusively menaces mongrel Border Collies?

Actually, the truth rather surprised me. Mid-afternoon, I tramped out back to reposition the sprinkler in our overgrown grassy area. A loud electric crackling startled me. It was the kind of loud, threatening noise you would encounter in a digitally re-mastered Frankenstein movie.

It repeated twice before I could pinpoint the source. A trio of roadrunners stalked the south wall. These were not the amiable cheeky sort of roadrunner that would permit an inept coyote to chase them for sport. These were the fierce avian successors of velociraptors, bold and territorial. The dominant male flared his crest and darted towards me audaciously, sizzling like a high voltage wire. Stupefied, I stepped back several paces.

The two smaller birds joined him expectantly, as if a major chase was about to commence. My heart skipped a beat. It was similar to the momentary terror you experience the instant a squirrel unexpectedly snatches a sandwich remnant off your plate at the park. When I recovered, I thought, “Damn! Where’s my camera?”

Of course, by the time I lugged it out, the show was over. The pursuer became the pursued. I captured a fleeting shot of the two smaller birds fleeing across the yard and a multitude of blurry photographs of the roadrunners treed in a mesquite bush. From the relative safety of the mesquite, the dominant male still flared his crest ominously and continued to sputter hostilely. No wonder Misty was freaked out.

Camera shy.

 
I swear he was more sinister in person! You can see a second R.R. blurred in the background.

 

Buttcracks and Bruises!

Back to posting pics. With the advent of hot weather, we've been wanting to introduce our wee one to the pool. So, compliments of Tanya, we are starting with baby steps, or rather a baby pool:




The plumber's butt is pretty obvious, but can you see the constellation of tiny bruises on baby? Much to my horror, the poor little devil has been knocking himself about the head and limbs trying to stand up.


 
Those stars look way too freakin' cheerful.