Holden's First Birthday; What Will I Remember in Ten Years?

Holden's first birthday was last week on the 28th. We're having his party this Sunday at our house; let the stress rain down.

God, our house is a dump. The garage is full of crap. Shelf upon shelf of musty, dusty, often mildewed books "rescued" by Mark from other people's trash line two of the walls. At least 20 large boxes are stacked four and five boxes high, forming a wall barring access to the books and housing all the things Mark can't throw away: movie stubs, binders of his work in high school and college, boxes of pens and reams of paper. A third wall houses all the games we never play and with which Mark can not bring himself to part. A large, never-used table saw, an air hockey table (likewise virginal), and a dining table and six chairs given to us by Burgundy's grandmother eclipse any hope of actually parking in the garage, and our cats live in there. Enough said.

Inside the house, our pantry's contents have found their way out and onto the floor in front of the pantry. The laundry room exists in a perpetual state of overflow. Our dog lives mostly outside, but at night he sleeps in the guest bathroom. Guess what that room smells like? Well, dog and dirty diapers; Holden's diaper pail provides a heady, pungent aroma that permeates the back half of the house, eclipsing the fragile wisps of candle smoke competing for recognition in our olfactory palette. My craft room has a treacherous, 3-foot long, winding path by which I can reach my desk to sigh over unpaid bills and pray for a rain of money. The hallway is crowded with about 10 boxes of Christmas decorations, more than half of which never went up in the first place.

Throughout the house, baseboards are mismatched in both size and color, and walls bear the distinctive striping of people rubbing against them in an attempt to traverse a pathway without knocking something over. The front and back yards are overgrown (in January!); our lawn mower is broken, and I have no idea where to even start with getting them cleaned up.

Somehow I must organize, clean, disinfect and somehow apply the mask that I keep in a jar by the door to my whole [profanity redacted] house by Sunday while attending to all doctor appointments, keeping Holden fed; keeping him from sucking on electrical cords; keeping him in dry, unsoiled diapers; keeping him from eating the dog and cat food (in all honesty, I sometimes give up on the latter in order to buy myself a precious 5-10 minutes in which to wash, dry, fold, and put away all the laundry in the house); making and cleaning up from dinner for the family; driving Burgundy all over creation with a happy smile on my face, and employing grace and dignity while dealing with all the minor emergencies that populate every human being's day to day life. All with 3-5 hours per night of sleep interrupted every 60-90 minutes by Holden's near obsessive need to suck on my teats. It goes on. And on. And on.

Once I've disguised our trashy hovel as the respectable suburban manse the world expects, I have to bake a cake for everyone and a cake for Holden, ice the damn things (can you believe the standards people hold me to?), and decorate the house for our illustrious guests.

I'm honestly tempted to pick up a cake at Wal-Mart, set the house on fire, buy a plane ticket to Paris (France, y'all; I don't think Paris, TX has an airport. Holy crap. Paris, TX has an airport), and let Mark handle the rest of the birthday party.

Christmas!

Two days, two months; oh well. I have so much to feel guilty for; I won't add this blog to the list.

Merry Christmas! It's a bit chilly outside, but my snow peas and mustards are doing great. Even the broccoli appears to be growing. Sweet potato vines, alas, do not hold up well to the brisk wind that passes for autumn here in Houston. Drought? They thrived. But heavens, not a temp under 80!

I woke early and made a pan of cinnamon rolls and two loaves of fresh bread for Christmas breakfast. While waiting for the rolls to rise, I washed and put away the dishes from last night's dinner and washed this morning's bread dishes. I have no idea what to cook to go with the cinnamon rolls for breakfast. Eggs and sausage, I guess. I'd rather have nothing at all but the cinnamon rolls, but if I don't have at least a little protein with the junk, I might as well plan to lay in bed and lose the whole day. 

I have a huge ham sitting on the stovetop waiting to be stuffed into the oven for late Christmas luncheon.  Mark requested asparagus to go with Formal Christmas Dinner, and Burgundy wanted green bean casserole and macaroni and cheese. I have a great recipe from my friend Tiff for mac & cheese, so those four meager things will comprise our family meal.

The rolls are risen, as is Holden, whose cranky whine of indignation has alerted me to the unacceptably milkless condition of his nearly one-year-old existence. Even though I'd rather blog about Burgundy's wonderful Sweet 16 party, I'll go turn on the oven, cook breakfast, and feed the baby. Such is life, and it is good.

I Had A Lot To Think About

To give fair warning, the birth was not easy and was not what I expected. I would do it again in a heartbeat, but this story is not sprinkled falsely with fairy farts and hippy flowers and the Untold Joys of Squooshing a Butterball Turkey Baby out of My Nether Bits. That's Burgundy's birth story, which I've yet to write in 15 stinking years. Not traumatic enough, I guess.


Ultimately, I decided on a plan of increasing aggression against the wee parasite. I would wake Tuesday morning, go for an ultrasound and run a couple of errands. Then we would have Christmas lunch with Mark's parents, keeping it to a reasonably short visit. When we came home, I planned to take black and blue cohosh tincture and have Mark massage my uterus with castor oil. I really didn't want to drink that stuff.

My Wise Woman Herbal for the Childbearing Year assured me that these steps all were efficacious in starting labor assuming the baby was ready. The same book recommended ingesting the castor oil only after taking these steps; I happily complied. I decided that if labor did not begin Tuesday night, then Wednesday morning would find me in the kitchen, gagging down castor oil.

I went to bed Monday night with the plan fixed in my mind, relieved finally to have resolved on a course of action.

Tuesday morning I woke at 8:30 and went to the bathroom. When I wiped, I came away with traces of my mucous plug, and when I stood, I had a contraction. I lay back down and snuggled against Mark, telling him what had happened. Five minutes later, I had another contraction. Mark and I decided to go ahead with our errands for the day, and after several more contractions came in rhythm, I texted Jackie, our midwife, to tell her what was happening. We cancelled the ultrasound.

I have no idea why I thought it was so important, but over the course of the morning, I insisted that we go shopping. We went to Michael's for green beads, and when we couldn't find the right shade of green there, we went to Hobby Lobby. I suppose I thought that I might knit so much after the baby came that I would run out of the beads. We went to a local yarn store for a purse to give Mark's mom for Christmas, and we went to Kroger for carrots and broccoli, because I knew I could not live without them while laboring. I continued to have contractions throughout the shopping, terrifying the store clients, thrilling the store staff and doubtless puzzling my poor family beyond repair.

We made it home sometime between 12:30 and 1PM. Mark began setting up the birth pool in the living room, and I sat in the swing in the front yard to call Jackie. I told her the status and said that the contractions were getting intense enough that I couldn't laugh or talk through them. She said she would be on her way after making a couple of stops.

Meanwhile, Mark discovered the vagaries of indoor birth pools and their total lack of instruction on assembly. Once he finally got it assembled (amid my protests of, "I WANT TO BE IN THE WATER NOW. MAKE IT WORK."), he ran the water hose from the hot water heater relief valve to the pool and began filling it up. With cold water. We never have figured that one out. How do you get cold water out of a hot water heater?

While we worked this conundrum, the midwife's assistant, Camellia, arrived with instant calm. She chatted with me between contractions, encouraged me through the hard ones, and swapped stories with me about mutual friends; turns out, she'd heard Burgundy's birth story from Tracey years ago; she was thrilled to make the connection. It was pretty clear I wasn't having the baby anytime soon, so at Camellia's suggestion, Mark ran to Home Depot while I sat in the pool of tepid water, having Burgundy pour pitchers of hot water all around me during contractions.


After a couple of contractions, I discovered that looking right at someone and holding eye contact throughout a contraction really helped me to get through it. When Mark returned, I gave Burgundy the job of sitting across from me through every contraction and looking into my eyes.

Burgundy brought her own phenomenal energy to the birth. She stayed remarkably calm and collected throughout. As she sat across from me through each contraction, every time I began saying, "Nooo, nooo, nooo, nooo, no," or shaking my head, Burgundy would very firmly nod her head yes while pursing her lips to remind me how to breathe.

With the pool filled up with hot water and Jackie present, labor continued to do its job. I remember needing to pee so, so badly, but I simply could not do it. At one point I sat on the toilet in the bathroom, looked at Jackie, and said, "I don't want to do this. I don't want to! I already have a kid; I've done this already, and I don't want to do it again!" I don't know what she thought, but she just smiled and said, "Well, it's coming, and you can't stop it now." Camellia chose that moment to compliment my well-shaped, nursing-ready nipples. I have no idea why that helped, but there you have it. Existential crisis? Grab it by the boobs.

I labored in the pool; I labored in the bed. I knelt, squatted, sat, stood, floated and leaned through the contractions. At one point, Mark had to hold my leg in the air, pushing back against my foot while I used him for leverage. Eventually, Jackie asked if she could check me, and she discovered that I had a little cervical lip. She tried pushing it back, and I hollered like an angry cat on Halloween. She gave me a choice. I could let her try pushing it back during a contraction, or I could try breathing through a few contractions to let it move back on its own. I chose the latter.

I had called Tracey at some point while laboring in the bedroom, and she remained on the phone, praying and breathing with me through the contractions. About every third contraction, I would become completely overwhelmed and simply scream. Those contractions frightened me; I'd had nothing like them when in labor with Burgundy. Eventually even Tracey's prayers over the phone were too much of a distraction, so we hung up.

After several contractions, Jackie checked me again, but I still had the lip. She and Camellia agreed that breaking my bag of waters would hasten the birth. I asked Jackie if I would be angry with her tomorrow. She paused, then said, "I don't think so." I told her to break it. I had gone from, "I don't want this," to "Get it out; I don't care what it takes."

She said she had to go to the car for her amniohook, and I told her I had a wide range of crochet hooks in all colors and sizes in the next room. She declined to use them. I moaned, panted, and chanted through another contraction, and Jackie returned with the hook, breaking my bag of waters just as the next contraction began.

Reclining into Mark's arms, I relaxed a little as I felt the warm rush of water between my legs, and then a steamroller flattened my last hopes for a dignified birth as a contraction like none I had ever felt before took over my entire body. Instinctively, I curled myself forward and felt myself strangling on a scream of horror as I lost control of myself. I could not will myself to breathe, much less to relax, open, or allow my child to be born gently into an open flower or whatever other hippy nonsense I thought would happen. I found myself on my hands and knees, writhing in agony, screaming into poor Jackie's face. Through it all, I had to pee so badly that I could feel myself NOT-PEEING through the pain of the contraction.

This contraction started with a feeling like something had grabbed my uterus and was trying to wad it like aluminum foil into the smallest possible ball. It spread out from there around my back in bands, making me want to buck against it even though the very action made the crumpling feelings in my uterus even worse. Lightning pains shot down both legs, and my chest felt compressed as though Mark and Burgundy together sat on it.

As it passed, I turned to face Mark. Yes, the poor man watched that contraction from behind. He might never again desire my intimacy. Before I could catch my breath and recover, the next one hit. I felt like a cat being stretched by its limbs and tail; I felt I could come apart at any moment. I briefly saw a visual of the dead wife in The Last King of Scotland, feeling I could easily end up torn limb from limb and sewn back together askance as a warning to all women. I never caught my breath; I remember seeing Mark's face crawling in pain as I grabbed a handful of his stomach flesh in each hand to anchor myself against the screams I couldn't stop.

The contraction passed, and I felt ashamed of the screams. I wanted to take them back, apologize, pull myself together and behave like the grown-ass woman I was. I had birthed Burgundy with dignity and not much trouble as a naïve, broke, and idealistic 20-year-old. Surely as an adult I could do the same? I hardly registered the thought before the next contraction ripped another scream from my throat.

Mark's face kept its rigid, wide-eyed, flared-nostril expression through however many more contractions passed. I mauled his flesh, screamed in his face like a braying donkey. I said I couldn't do it; I didn't want to do it.

Jackie said "He's coming; he's close now," and I asked how long. "Maybe 10 more minutes."

I did the math on the contraction spacing and said, "Okay, so that's four more contractions? I can do this four more times."

After that, I managed to get behind the contractions. I pushed with the next few and each time felt myself blacking out. I told Mark not to let me drown. Jackie told me not to push so hard, and I told her that I didn't have a choice. Then another extreme contraction hit, and through my screams, I told them I thought I would rip open. I could feel myself holding the baby inside of me, clenching my whole bottom shut, trying to protect myself from pain, from the baby, from motherhood itself. The contraction eased, and somehow we managed to get one of my legs up so that my right knee and left foot supported me, and my left knee pointed out and away from my body. Jackie used the Doppler to check the baby's heartrate again; it remained in the 150's.

Another contraction, another push, and between screams I begged Mark not to let me drown. Then through the haze, I heard Jackie's voice: "Melissa, listen to me. You need to do exactly what I tell you to do." I felt argument building inside me; wasn't I already doing everything I could? But I had nothing left to give it a voice. Without a pause, I heard Jackie say, "This is a matter of life and death. You have to get this baby out now."*

I don't know what I said or if I said anything. At that point, I decided that if I had to be ripped open, I would survive it. I remember thinking that I would have to tear him out of myself because I couldn't relax my bottom enough to let him out. So I curled my husband's flesh into my fists, closed my eyes on his face, and I bore down on the baby's body with all the strength in my own, refusing even to grunt until I felt myself blacking out. I stopped, gulped air, and hearing calls of, "Great job, again, again," I closed everyone out again, bore down again, and moved the little body down, out, and away.

I felt him come free in a rush of limbs. Whatever happened next, I found myself reclining next to Mark, back against the pool, with a blue, limp little boy on my chest, snuggling into my breast, the midwives rubbing his feet, his back, his chest, and encouraging me to do the same. I talked to him and rubbed his glorious little chest. "Oh, you're beautiful!" I said, "I'm so glad you're finally here, baby; stay with us now."

Jackie set her stethoscope on his bulging, fat chest, and she heard his strong, big, heart pounding him into existence, insisting on life, forcing his lungs into a long, lusty scream. He began to wail, and I noticed huge, bulbous cheeks; thick, fatty eyebrows, and little white flecks of calcium deposits all over a sweet baby face. His head of peach fuzz looked blond, and his lower lip folded far under his upper lip. When he pinched his face to scream, his eyes disappeared into a fold between his brows and cheeks, a fold that extended across his nose.

His heart rate slowed again, and his noises died down, and we discovered his cord was compressed under his leg. Once freed, his heart raced to catch up, and our son yelled with all the rage of a happy man evicted from his warm, cozy home. Happily, we have milk, the warm flesh of family's embrace, and all the love the world can offer to make up for it.

Much later, after we'd left the pool and dried off, snuggled into our bed together, let Burgundy hold and play with him (Mark has video), nursed and bonded, the midwives and Mark all announced their guesses for birth weight. Camellia guessed, "Well north of nine pounds." Jackie guessed he would be, "Just under nine pounds." Mark looked up from his son and said only, "Nine Two."

Jackie set up her hanging scale, laid him in the sling, and weighed him. She grinned at Mark, "Nine pounds, two ounces." Mark grinned back. He was 22 inches long, and his head was 14.5 inches around (as were his chest and abdomen; what a little rock).

We ultimately decided to stick with the name we'd chosen for him, and our son, Holden Elijah, is grunting and squirming in his bouncer next to me as I type. Yesterday marked two weeks of life, and at the birth center for our two-week checkup, he weighed in at ten pounds, five ounces. Currently he's growling and grunting at his wee left fist, which he insists should produce milk. He continues to try to eat it in defiance of evidence to the contrary. A left-handed fantasist. He'll fit in great here.

* I wanted to write this story entirely from my perspective, but for the sake of those wondering what in the world happened, it was this: The cord was wrapped twice around the baby's neck. It was too tight to pull it over his head, which would be the normal procedure, so I believe Jackie planned to clamp and cut it after I finished delivering the head. When I pushed the head the rest of the way out, though, the cord cinched up like a noose, making clamping impossible as well. That was when Jackie told me that I had to get the baby out now. I pushed the baby out in two pushes that were, I think, between contractions. Jackie flipped the baby as he came out and freed him from his cord, which she then left intact to give him support while we helped him start breathing.

I Want to Be All Professional and Stuff

But I've decided I'll have to settle for updating however and whenever both the spare time and the motivation to write collide in my life. If there's one consistent thing about me, it's that I am inconsistent. It drives me batty, and I bet it drives the rest of you even battier. Is that a word?

I mean, how many projects have I started on here? Let's see . . .

1. Eat and buy products sourced only within 200 miles of my location. Status: Failed. Reason: The parasite rendered me incapable of anything but laying on the couch and whining. Mark had no interest in procuring locally, and it fell to him to keep us fed, clothed, and at least one step above misery. He's done a great job, so I have no complaints about our continued global shopping habits. Now that I'm feeling better, maybe we can try again.
2. The Why I Choose Homebirth series. Status: Failed. Reason: I'm a chicken, and I'm afraid I won't do the argument justice. But I haven't squeezed him out yet, so maybe it's not failed. Maybe just on hold.
3. The Julia-isms: posting one bizarre thing Julia said everyday. Status: Failed. Reason: Julia moved out.
4. The 30 Days meme. Status: Failed. Reason: I tell myself the topics are boring.
5. I'm sure there's something else, but I want to write, not scour my old posts for evidence of my failure. 

I plan to complete the Homebirth series no matter what. I really need to take a bit of time to organize my thoughts and decide a coherent approach, and that will help a lot. Every time I think about it, I think of a new order in which to present the material, and each time the new order seems like it's more compelling than the previous one. You know what would be really compelling? Actually writing something down. Yeah. Now there's a thought.

Meanwhile, here's where we all are:
Mark:
My dear, sweet husband is doing well. I still want to scalp him from time to time, especially when he starts hovering over Burgundy. I know my stuff when it comes to parenting. And I know my child better than he can ever hope to, but he insists on micro-managing and cross-examining me about Burgundy's progress in school, and it drives me crazy.

Having said that, in every other area, we're doing great. He's even been [slowly] working on the garage, and yesterday he mentioned cleaning off his desk. He's perfectly happy with our steady diet of rice, beans and pizza with the occasional Julia Child-inspired gourmet meal whipped up when I don't feel like I've been trampled and pooped on by a giant dog.

We're one week from the end of the 2010 fiscal year, and his job in FY 2011 (starting October 1) still isn't solid. The good news is that the rumor mill holds that the task order will be signed, it's just a matter of time. In other good news, his new company has excellent benefits. His new insurance actually covers maternity medical at 100% with no co-pay.

His book-selling business is going well. He's subscribed to an online service that manages his inventory and sales for him, and he currently has books listed on 15 or so sites. Last month he sold over $1,200 in books, and he was able to reinvest over 80% of that in the business. At first I groused because I thought the profit (some $900) should have been put in savings. The more I considered it, though, the more at peace I am with his decisions. First, if my hobbies paid for themselves as well as his clearly does, we'd be rolling in it, and second, if we consider this a legitimate business, he should be reinvesting most of his capital early on. Of course, he's done it all debt-free and from the ground up.

And starting in mid-September, his book business is contributing a small amount every week to our emergency savings account. He's as tickled as a little boy bringing a bouquet of wildflowers to his mom, and I am just as happy for him.

Me:
I'm 27 weeks pregnant, and The Parasite is now 2.5 pounds and about 16 inches from head to toe. All curled up, my little man supposedly takes the space of a head of cauliflower. And if a head of cauliflower shoved up my hoo-ha doesn't make you giggle, I can't help you in the humor department.

My weight gain has been very slow. I think I'm still under 210, for a total gain of about 14 pounds in 27 weeks. Given my obesity prior to pregnancy, I'm very comfortable with the slow gain. Most people, upon learning I'm "only" 6.5 months, blurt out, "Are you sure you're not having twins?" So I'm pretty sure (she says with an exasperated eyeroll) that the Parasite is getting everything he needs.

I, too, have a week of employment remaining. I'm told that the budget for the next fiscal year's task order funds me through December, which is really great news. The only problem is the minor question of Congressional inaction. Our task order depends on a chain reaction of bureaucratic activity: Congress must pass a continuing resolution (CR); the CR must fund Constellation, which in turn must fund MOP sufficient to justify the task order on which I work. MOP then must decide to fund our task order, and if all that happens in the next seven days, I have a job on 10/1. If not, well, that's why we have unemployment insurance.

A small rant: Thank you Congress. I can't tell you how much I appreciate your dithering on the NASA budget. [Profanity redacted] you bunch of [profanity redacted]ing imbeciles, how difficult is it, really, to say, "Huh, dur, ya know what, uh, NASA oughta be funded, ah-yup," and pass a darn continuing resolution? For the love of Pete, the House and Senate versions aren't that far apart. Our Illustrious President said he would sign it. Get it together and pass something! WHARGARBL!

Burgundy:
I hate band season, and I hate sending my daughter off to high school every day. I don't mind most of the challenges. It's good for her to face authority figures who drive her nuts. It's good for her to figure out how to deal with bullies and how to face her own temptations down. However, I hate that she comes home from school so upset with listening to cursing and swearing all afternoon on the marching band field. I hate that her teachers don't have the time (and some not even the inclination) to help Burgundy really learn instead of asking her to regurgitate facts.

Having said that, it's going well for her over all. As it happens, Burgundy lettered last year, her first year in high school. She did not letter in writing, debate, or band as we might have expected. After all, she wants to major in English and Music. She lettered in Science Fair. Yes, science fair.

She started pre-Calculus this year, a Senior-level class in which she is the only Sophomore and definitely the youngest person. She has two Seniors paying her $10/hour for tutoring after school. We don't know what to do for math in the next two years. The only two non-remedial math courses at the school that she hasn't taken are AP Calculus and AP Statistics, and the counselor said she won't be ready for AP Calculus if she hasn't taken pre-AP Pre-Calculus, but there's no non-AP Calculus course offered. She could take AP Statistics, but I hate for her to leave the Calculus track for a year to head in a completely different direction. We might have her take AP Cal over the summer at Rice.

She's very excited about her little brother, and she chose our nursery theme: Monkeys. The picture here is a piece of wall art we registered for, but those are the general colors for the nursery; we love them.

Soren (Disclaimer: The dog said he had something to share, but I can't be held responsible for his frippery. He is, after all, a dog.):

WOOF! WOOF WOOF! AAAAAHRUUUUUUGGH, woof.

Oh! oh! oh! oh! I am so excited because I am a dog and my eyes are big and OH MY GOD HAVE YOU SEEN MY TAIL IT'S  HUGE AND WITH IT I DOMINATE ALL THINGS!

My lady, she taught me a new trick! It has to do with the puffy air thing and the drool! She says it is, "Stop breathing!" and then she makes the hand motion, and I close my mouth and do not let any of the air out, and when I feel all blown up and my tail is sticking out because it is full of air, then my lady says, "Good boy, free!" and then I can let the air out, and I puff and pant and do the thing that is blowing slobber all over the big puffy soft thing that my lady calls the couch and she yells, "Gross! Get away from me! Ew, GO AWAY!" and then I use my tail to dominate the room while I turn around and walk away!

And the man! The man is so NICE! But he doesn't know how to do the thing where I stop breathing. Because that is only for my lady to tell me to do! And the man gives me food and makes me stand on my back legs and he tells me, "LEFT PAW!" and "RIGHT PAW!"

And yesterday, my lady took me to the dog park! And it was fun, and there were other dogs there! And some of them wanted to do the thing that is hop up on my giant, dominant tail and hump me to prove they are more dominant than my dominant tail, but I did not let them! I said, "WOOF!" And also I am very big and my lady says "One hundred pounds" and talks to the invisible man about me and calls him, "Christ," because he knows I am big too and that's why the other dogs can't hump my tail! And then I found a dog that was very small; my lady said that dog should have gone to the little dog park! And I tried to hump her face to show her how special I am, but my lady yelled at me and called me a BAD DOG, and it made me sad.

And then she put me in the car, and she made me put my head out the window because she does not like it when I drool on her shoulder, but I left lots of drool on the door and also some of the stuff that she says is snot on the car seat.

I'm so glad my lady loves me! Peanut butter!
_____________________________________________________________
Well. I guess we can all see why Soren does not have a regular spot on this blog. I'm so sorry to have exposed you all to his sordid, canine mind.

Day 04 – What you ate today, in great detail

or, How I Confirmed I'm Still Rebelling After All This Time.

I finally summoned the strength and courage to return to the Den of Iniquity kitchen. The blueberry jam sessions and subsequent jelly sessions went a long way toward boosting my confidence that I can, in fact, handle cooking while pregnant. At least this trimester. Then I also washed, par-boiled, and froze 20 bags of pink-eyed, purple-hull peas. And I want to make and can many pints of the base for butternut squash soup.

I clambered into bed Sunday night with a glimmer of a plan to make breakfast for Burgundy on her first day of school. Let me explain something to the world about having an independent, easy-going, joy-filled teenager. Sometimes, it's too easy. I have never, ever been the get-up-and-make-breakfast mom. Ever. And she has never complained. Just asked me to buy another box of cereal.

Monday morning the alarm went off at 5:30, and I clambered out of the bed, caught a quick shower, and made my way to the kitchen. I threw five strips of bacon into one of my skillets and two slices of bread into the decrepit little toaster I've had for at least a decade. While I waited for the bacon sizzle to start, I found a pancake recipe online and started mixing the batter.

Halfway through the batter, I flipped the bacon and set aside the last three eggs in the refrigerator to be fried and scrambled. I added the melted butter to the batter, beat it in with a fork, the thick sludge oozing around the fork while I smashed flour lumps against the side of the bowl until I had a nice, consistent goop.

I flipped the bacon again and gathered my salt and pepper. I folded a paper towel in half and scooped the bacon into it, setting it onto a plate on the opposite counter and hoping enough grease would drain to assuage my guilt. I cracked the first egg into the still-spattering bacon grease and quickly sprinkled a smidge of salt over the top. I ground a little pepper over that and let it fry while I washed out the eggshell and threw it into the oatmeal box I converted into a holder for eggshells (Mark likes to spread them in the garden).

I flipped the egg, grabbed another paper towel and folded it, then slipped the egg onto it and laid it next to the bacon to drain. I did the same for the second egg and breathed a little easier knowing I still had 30 minutes to clean the skillet of bacon grease, melt some butter, and scramble an egg for my vegetarian daughter's breakfast.

While the second egg fried on side one, I broke the third egg into a bowl, added salt and pepper, and I beat it frenetically. I hate half-beaten scrambled eggs. Gross. Flipped the second egg, whipped the pancake batter, set egg number 2 to drain with number 1 and the bacon, and poured the bacon grease into a dirty pot to cool for the trash. Used yet another paper towel to wipe out the skillet, threw in a dollop of butter, and after a final quick thrashing, poured in the final egg. It took about 32 seconds to cook.

After that I spent what felt like hours at the tedious task of pouring, flipping, and scooping out pancakes. By 6:15, we all were seated at the kitchen table for one of our few real breakfast meals ever as a family. I said a prayer, and we dove into our food with the reckless abandon of a family that eats out too often.

The pancakes lasted through Tuesday, and I made more bacon and eggs to go with them.

Please excuse the crappy, cell-phone
quality photo. I wanted to eat, not take
photos, so this was my compromise.

Oh, the quiche. I don't know how to tell you what a lovely, wonderful cook and writer is Julia Child. Her quiche "base" recipe is so perfectly simple and elegant; it cooks perfectly every single time I've ever made it. Tuesday evening I also undertook to make her pie crust for the first time. If it's possible, I didn't keep it cold enough. Next time I will freeze the butter, flour and shortening for a little while before I make it, and I'll use ice water instead of just the cold refrigerator water.  I had a hard time getting the dough rolled out to a consistent, thin thickness. Anyway, the quiche rose high and serene from the gorgeous pie crust, standing like a tower of princess eggs over her realm. We ate half for dinner Tuesday night, and I forbade Mark to touch it again before morning, when we shared the remainders for breakfast with bacon and toast liberally smeared with butter and homemade blueberry jelly.

Inspired by my incredibly repeatable success with her quiche recipe, I decided to try her recipe for fish poached in white wine and baked in a sauce mornay made with swiss cheese. I served it with bow-tie pasta served with very slightly wilted spinach all mixed up with the liberal amount of leftover sauce mornay from the fish.

Today I served breakfast for the fourth day in a row, bacon, eggs and toast - an English muffin each for me and Burgundy - and Burgundy tentatively remarked that she felt so much better at school for having eaten a good breakfast. Normally I will take a grateful, loving remark like that and turn it into a reason to beat myself up for the 14 years of breakfast opportunities lost. Not today, though. Today I will use it to say, "Well done, Mel. You're a good mom Right Now." Even though I employ random capitalization for emphasis, unnecessarily provoking the wrath of the Minor God of Anal Grammarians.

Tonight the main dish is spaghetti and meatballs so I can focus on doing something evil and delicious with the box of fresh brussels sprouts in my refrigerator. I'm pretty sure it will involve the last of the white wine from yesterday's adventure, some garlic, and a number of fresh herbs from Mark's garden. I feel such delight and joy to be back in the kitchen.

So you wonder what this has to do me being rebellious? It's this: I took one look at today's topic and thought, "What? Food. That's dumb. I don't want to write about what I ate. I want to write about what I've been doing in the kitchen." *headdesk*

Day 1: Introduction

Okay, seriously? I have to introduce myself?

What if I just take this meme and say, "The topic for today looks lame and silly. It isn't worth the effort. Instead, I'll write about the impact of flatulence in weather patterns over the US and the relationship of said flatulence to fast food consumption rates." I think that's what I'll do. Today, I'll introduce my family.

Me!
I'm 35, currently working for NASA's Constellation Program on the Mission Operations Project and trying hard to go home. At the same time I want desparately to be at home most of the time to serve my family, I also feel a bit conflicted about keeping my identity (I am competent. I am sane.) and continuing to participate with rational adults. I'm contemplating a couple of different ministry/volunteer options that I might work through our church, and I'm planning to teach Generation Change to our youth in the fall semester. Generation Change is the youth/teen-targeted version of Dave Ramsey's Financial Peace University.

I'm 5 months pregnant now, and I still haven't quite gotten my head around the idea. It's been a difficult one so far, and while I'm thrilled to have a baby, I am less-than-jazzed about this particular pregnancy experience. I do not feel like a goddess-earth-mother-bringer-of-life. I feel like a nauseated, overheated, fat, old, wet dog who, if kicked one. more. time. will hork everything from her toenails upward onto your favorite carpet.

I have not been eating well because it matters not how well or badly I eat, I still feel like microwaved cat crap. I think I need to stop eating out of the trash can, though, because the indigestion and nausea have continued to improve in spite of the garbage I'm eating. I bet if I just ate reasonably healthy food, I'd feel even better now. Not a month ago, though.

Mark
My beloved husband. How do I describe him? Imagine Ichabod Crane. Now imagine young Ichabod with bizarre, lustrous corkscrew curls falling around his face like the most adorable little (six-foot tall string-bean) hobbit ever. Add a really bizarre sense of humor with timing that will make you shoot orange juice from your nostrils, and you have my husband.

Maybe that doesn't tell you so much after all.

Mark works for NASA's International Space Station Program; he manages repairs for Boeing, but he isn't employed by them (grumble grumble). He's a very intense, very personal man who has the biggest, gentlest heart God made. Unless he's hungry or over-tired, in which case, I stock up the house with dark chocolate and take extended visits with friends.

Mark wants to name our baby Gallifrey for God's sake. Why do I need to explain anything else about him?

Burgundy
Burgundy is not just my child. In that peculiar way that we do, my daughter defines her mother. I defined mine, too. I rearranged my life when I found out she would be joining me, and I'm still shocked (a little) that she's here. What a perfect gift.

When I held infant Burgundy, I sang Brahm's lullaby to her. I rocked her, and when I came to "Little [insert baby name here] is sleepy. And she's tired, and she's sleepy, and she wants to go to sleep!" I thought those the most idiotic, uninspired lame bunch of words ever fitted together to make a rhyme. So I cooed, "Little Burgundy is lovely. And she's gracious, and she's generous, and she wants to go to sleep!" At the time, I thought it couldn't hurt to sing to her all her possibilities in life. All her best qualities.

Fourteen years later, we finished her Girl Scout Silver Award today. Burgundy volunteered over 52 hours during the last 3 weeks to organize and run a food drive for a local homeless service. She collected 208 cans, boxes, and bags of food, and we drove them to the shelter this morning. She came up with the idea after riding the bus and rail system in Houston this summer and seeing the homeless everywhere rooting through trash for a sandwich scrap. She packed extra bags of Cheerios with her lunch and handed them out at the stops. Yes, she's gracious and generous. Lovely.

Back Flips

Our parasite hates the jeans I'm wearing today, which sucks because they're not too tight, not too baggy, not falling down, and not giving me indigestion. Also not buttoned (yay belly sleeves).

I know he hates them because he is one laid-back, calm, cool, and collected little dude. He's so much like his dad already. Content just to be, he only moves when I'm uncomfortable. *TMI WARNING* The other day, I got all constipated, and he literally kicked the crap out of me until things got moving again. Hilarious. *OKAY, YOU'RE SAFE*

He goes mad after a long day on my feet when I lay down and put them up and the blood starts to rush back into the rest of my body. As my heartrate speeds up with the sheer pleasure of feeling the pain drain out of my feet, he rolls and squirms and pokes and wiggles like wild. When I sit for too long at work, he sticks and kicks and yanks (God he has a grip) until I get up and walk.

For the most part though, he just enjoys being there. As long as I'm happy, he's happy. However, today we are at odds. In spite of these wonderful, lovely, comfortable maternity jeans that aren't even buttoned, he's having little hissy fits. Does. Not. Want. Tough cookies, kiddo. Your big sister will tell you in a heartbeat: you just lucked out to get stuck into the least sympathetic mother ever. I like the jeans, and I will wear them again. Partially because I love to feel you moving.

August is half-over, and contrary to my dire predictions, I have not yet expired of heat exposure. I'm certain I will; I mean, God still has two more months of Houston summer with which to assault me. So hang in there. I'm not dead yet . . . [but I'll] be stone dead in a moment.*

Meanwhile, one of my favorite bloggers ever (I mean, GOD, she's so funny and real and raw [and wriggling]), grammardog at livejournal (y'all, I miss the old livejournal so much!), decided to do this meme. And given that I can't stick with the same topic for more than 15 minutes either way, I figured I'd announce my intention to do the same so that you'll all know that in fact, I will not do more than 1-2 posts. Then I'll see something shiny and chase it down and come back in two weeks blogging about Russian organized crime and its impact on the environment of Saturn or something.

Anyway, it's a 30-day thing with a different topic each day:

Day 01 - Introduction
Day 02 – Your first love, in great detail
Day 03 – Your parents, in great detail
Day 04 – What you ate today, in great detail
Day 05 – Your definition of love, in great detail
Day 06 – Your day, in great detail
Day 07 – Your best friend, in great detail
Day 08 – A moment, in great detail
Day 09 – Your beliefs, in great detail
Day 10 – What you wore today, in great detail
Day 11 – Your siblings, in great detail
Day 12 – What’s in your bag, in great detail
Day 13 – This week, in great detail
Day 14 – What you wore today, in great detail
Day 15 – Your dreams, in great detail
Day 16 – Your first kiss, in great detail
Day 17 – Your favourite memory, in great detail
Day 18 – Your favourite birthday, in great detail
Day 19 – Something you regret, in great detail
Day 20 – This month, in great detail
Day 21 – Another moment, in great detail
Day 22 – Something that upsets you, in great detail
Day 23 – Something that makes you feel better, in great detail
Day 24 – Something that makes you cry, in great detail
Day 25 – A first, in great detail
Day 26 – Your fears, in great detail
Day 27 – Your favourite place, in great detail
Day 28 – Something that you miss, in great detail
Day 29 – Your aspirations, in great detail
Day 30 – One last moment, in great detail

I suppose that's it for today. I and The Parasite have a lot of work to do, so I suppose it's time to put my nose to the grindstone.
* Anyone want to identify the quote source for minor geek points?

Dog Barf

Mark got himself in trouble a couple of weeks ago.

I tried a new recipe: pasta with arugula and parsley cream sauce.

Now I like arugula in salads, so I thought, "Hey, why not be adventurous?" I am a fool.

First, in accordance with the recipe, I went outside and picked a handful of Mark's arugula. Now the recipe called for a bunch, so I felt that with only 5 or so leaves, I was really skimping. It also called for four sprigs of parsley, so I dutifully picked those as well.

Back inside, I washed and dried each leaf, then chopped them up fine and put them in the blender. I put in a cup of my precious homemade sour cream and another 1/3 cup of goat and feta cheeses and pureed it all together for a nice, springy, Easter green sauce. I have to admit: it smelled funny, but I decided to trust my sense of adventure. "It smells woodsy and earthy," I told myself.

I boiled the pasta, thinking, "Oh boy, this is going to be gourmet." (Note to self: If you start having delusions of gourmet about a given dish, it might be best just to throw it out preemptively.) I drained the pasta and sprayed it with cold water. One of my nicest serving bowls appeared perfect to showcase this spring green pasta wizardry: two-tone cornflower and sky blue, and set the table. Congratulated myself on getting adventurous in the kitchen, on feeding healthful food to my family, and on using the food in our garden. I poured the "earthy" sauce onto the pasta and mixed it together in that beautiful blue bowl.

Burgundy came into the kitchen; I speared a piece of pasta and said, "Taste it!" with a big grin. Burgundy grinned back; she's learned to trust my cooking. After all, how many times have I said, "I know! It sounds awful, but just try it." Without trusting me, she'd never have had buttermilk pie. Zucchini bread. Peanut butter and honey.  I held the fork between us, smiling happily, flush with the accomplishment of a new dish, fresh from our yard and my labors. She sniffed the fusilli and immediately, involuntarily assumed her Careful Face. "I know," I said. "It smells funny; just try it."

Ever the obedient child, Burgundy opened her mouth and gingerly took the fusilli from the fork. Her eyes widened, her head tilted to one side, then the other. The Careful Face prevented me from determining whether these were signs of surprised delight or surprised disgust. I decided to walk the line: "It's not bad, is it?" She shook her head and swallowed. "See? It's maybe not something I'd make again; I mean, it's not delicious, but it's a passable meal." Her sweet smile and affirmative nod, eyes still wide, should have told me everything. Unfortunately, I lay in the grips of my own inflated ego. I ate another piece myself and waggled my eyebrows. Burgundy excused herself to do algebra. Another clue.

About that time, Mark came home from work. Sauntered in, smiling innocently, and kissed my cheek. "What's for dinner?" I grinned and told him about my awesome arugula-sour cream-goat-cheese-and-feta pasta. "Arugula?" he said timidly?

"Yeah, smell!" I said, and thrust the bowl under his nose. He inhaled deeply, recoiled sharply, and didn't even try to hide his disgust. Count on Mark for honesty. "I know, It smells funny, but it really tastes okay, honest!" Unfortunately, Mark trusts me in the kitchen as much as Burgundy does, and I still suffered under my delusions of culinary grandeur. "Here, try it," I said, holding out another lone noodle on the end of the fork. He looked at me, looked at the fork.

"Um." He looked back at me and sniffed the concoction again. "Well, there's always Casa Ole." Casa Ole is our go-to crap food. Everything is smothered in cheese, lard, and corn syrup. It's awful and awesome and a threat and fun. He leaned forward, took the fusilli between his teeth, and pulled it into his mouth. I waited; he chewed. Swallowed. "Hmm," he said, looking at my hopeful face, "uh, how about Casa Ole tonight?"

I admitted defeat. Suddenly I knew the dish really was that bad, and I had tormented my child and my own stomach in hopes of its salvation. Burgundy, who'd come back in to watch Mark taste it, heaved a long sigh of relief and punctuated it with, "Oh thank God." I suppressed a self-conscious giggle, and we all prepared to leave.

I know. If you're still reading, you're wondering why Mark would be in trouble. Well, honestly, at that point he wasn't. He simply told the truth, and I know the food really was that bad. It's what happened next that really has him in the doghouse.

While Burgundy got ready to leave, I looked at the bowl full of expensive sour cream and cheeses and pasta and said, "God I hate for this to go to waste."

Mark nodded and said, "Mm, yeah. Cost a lot?"

"Just the cheeses and sour cream, but yeah." We both looked mournfully at dinner's lost cause. "I bet the dog would eat it."

Mark looked at me a fraction of a second too long, and then said, "Uh, do you really think he'll want that?" He placed just a little too much emphasis on 'want that'.

"Only one way to find out," I said, and I place the bowl on the floor. Soren immediately began inhaling the green, smelly pasta without even a hint of hesitation. I turned to Mark in triumph. "See? Not a total waste."

Mark looked from me to the dog, who paused to hork a fusilli spiral out of his lungs and transfer it to his stomach. Soren looked up at us warily, as if we might try to take this miracle of deliciousness from him. He bent his head back to the bowl, now half empty.

"Maybe," Mark said, not weighing his words, not considering the punishment he would earn or his impending immortality on this blog, "Maybe we should put him outside on the patio in case he barfs it all up."

Unemployment Armageddon

We found out two days ago that in addition to the end of my current employment on September 30, Mark's contract ends October 1.

I feel angry, paralyzed, motivated, frightened. I am a walking maelstrom of emotions.

The only things we can do are the obvious:

1. Job hunt. My company has said that if we can move, they will help us find positions elsewhere in the company. In addition, Mark's skills transfer easily across industries. If he can find a position in petrochemicals or one of the other industries around here before the rest of NASA is laid off and saturates the market, we can stay in Houston.
2. Cut expenses. This will be the most difficult proposition because we already live pretty close to the bottom of the threshold, and there still are many things we need to buy. Burgundy wants to attend the Rice summer school again, this time for enrichment. Given the trouble she had in Algebra last year, we really want her to take a pre-Calculus enrichment class before she takes it for credit next year. She wants to take a class in writing, a class in Chemistry (she's taking Chem next year), and a class in US photographic history. We will pay for this because her education is important. It's worth it. $775. And that's only one expense. There's my truck, repairs to the house, medical bills . . . you name it.
3. Save money. As much as we can. We're working on that now. Mark is selling his books again over the internet, and I'm thinking of selling all but my most cherished yarn, fiber, and fabric. With all the above expenses, we're going to have to be brutal with each other about saying no.
4. Sell the house. This decision hurts the most. Mark loves our house. His garden is thriving, and we like our neighborhood. We're five minutes from Burgundy's high school, great location, yada yada. However, once NASA "refines" its workforce, housing here will plummet, and we'll lose our meager equity. We need to sell it now. Mark and I disagree on this, so the common ground we reached is that we need to get it ready to sell. I plan to call a realtor friend next week and ask her to help us prioritize what needs to be done. I know we need to get the clutter out of the house; Mark won't want to get rid of anything, so that will represent more expense. As will new carpet, replacing the tub in the guest bathroom, painting rooms and landscaping. We have pine trees.* I hate pine trees, and I have ten of them in my front yard.

I'm not sure exactly how, but I know we'll make it. Even if we end up drawing unemployment, we should be able to make it.

* Good God I hate pine trees. Perhaps it's that I grew up dirt poor in pine country, Mississippi, but they scream, "I AM TRAILER TRASH AND CAN'T AFFORD OAK TREES OR LANDSCAPING, SO I PLANTED UGLY, WEEDY, FAST-GROWING TOOTHPICK TREES INSTEAD! FEAR MY SHOTGUN!"

The Fruits of Our Labor

Tonight the arches of my feet ache so deeply I can nearly taste it. The ache leaves a tang in the back of my mouth. My calves burn, a deep, low smolder echoed in my lower back and shoulders. My neck muscles remain tight, ready for me to find one more thing to do, one more little task.

Mark crawled out of bed at 7:00. Yes, you read that right; my husband the night owl clambered out of bed as the sun himself protested with me to crawl back between the warm sheets. He spent the better part of the next three hours outside in his little garden trimming, clipping, and snipping his herbs into shape.

At 10 he took Burgundy to tutor her student, and I began to gather my wits for the day's to-do list. By 11, Mark had amassed a sorted pile of excess herbs and greens ranging from arugula to lemongrass, and he bagged them all and drove to the farmers' market. By then, I already had cash in hand and waited patiently to pick up my fresh milk and chicken. I have never bought chicken through this person before, and I'm eager to see whether this chicken lives up to Michael Pollan's hype on free-range, local, well-fed chicken.

Next I gathered Marie, who wanted to join Burgundy and me on our day's outing. Burgundy had loaded her typewriter into the car, and after relieving her student of Burgundy's company, we headed downtown to Dromgoole's, a tiny, mom-and-pop, pen and stationary store in Houston's Rice Village. So we began our foray with retail therapy. I bought a beautiful new fountain pen, deep navy and mostly metal with a bladder for ink instead of only a cartridge option. I also bought more notebooks, beautiful notebooks with heavy, thick smooth paper designed for fountain pens and writing. Burgundy left with a new red and black ink cartridge in her [likely] 40's vintage corona typewriter.

From there, we went to a tiny chocolaterie where we spent a really inexcusable amount on truffles. And not the French mushroom kind. No, we spent twelve dollars on four pieces of chocolate. We ate lunch at Star Pizza and proceeded from there to Froberg's Market in Alvin.

I'm so glad we went. We arrived to find scores of people in the fields with their families plucking red, juicy strawberries from row upon row of plants, so we picked up four little buckets and spent the next hour stooped over in the fields abandoning first dignity, then shoes and socks for as many of the berries as we could fit in our buckets. We found that the walking rows in one end of the field were waterlogged and muddy, and into these clearly uninhabitable reaches, less stalwart folk had failed to wander. Thus we plucked nearly 20 pounds of ripe berries without covering more than three planted rows.

We visited with my mother and friends of hers who had come into town to visit briefly for a few minutes before discovering we were late for my father-in-law's birthday dinner. We called to ask for a later start time, which was granted with good grace, and the girls and I left for home.

By the time we bought my FIL's gift (a copy each of The Omnivore's Dilemma and In Defense of Food, books he will love perhaps too much), wrapped it, met them at the restaurant, stopped by Half-Price Books (where I snagged What to Eat by Marion Nestle for $4, thank you very much), we were verging on 9:00 PM.

Back at the house, Burgundy began her studies, Mark showed his parents the latest in his garden, and Marie and I began washing and coring berries. We finished 10 pounds, and I froze 11 pints of sliced and quartered strawberries. By 11 PM, we had 5 remaining berries, so we poured ourselves a bowl each of my homemade vanilla granola, sliced in the strawberries, covered it all with milk, and enjoyed the most decadent midnight snack I could imagine. At that moment, I felt so grateful to the earth for her fruit, to God for his genius design, and to genetics for making sure Burgundy did not want any part of our strawberries.

Now it's half past midnight. Mark's catalogued his garden's contents for me, and he's perusing a large picture book on organic gardening. We each have a glass of Haak Winery's Syrah, and I feel alive, accomplished, and utterly spent.

Vacation Day 3 - Adventures of a Snot Junky

First, @($*TWERJGOIW#%)(T&Q#$%)(*#$%@#)(*%@RJGFSDFGJW#$!

WARGARBL!

There. I feel better having gotten that out of my system. Saturday night, I laid down for bed, and the roof of my mouth started itching. This is a warning sign of an impending allergy attack, so I leapt up, guzzled a glass of water and an allergy pill, and my sinuses promptly exploded in a shower of unwanted, stubborn snot.

Sunday Mark did most of the preparation and packing for our vacation while I moped around, occasionally throwing myself across the couch and moaning, "Oh woe! WOE! Why me? Why now? What have I done to deserve this?" and blowing my nose and wiping my runny eyes.

Mark drove to San Marcos while I knitted, bitched fairly consistently about everything, occasionally wept,  and pouted.

When we arrived in San Marcos at our neighbor's beautiful second home she graciously offered to us, we all unloaded the car while I continued to whine and the snot continued to flow. I collapsed into bed at the first opportunity and cried. Like a big baby. Because I'm on vacation and suffering one of the worst, most painful allergy attacks I've had in years.

In what I'm certain is completely unrelated news, we celebrated Pi day on our arrival by splitting a bottle of Shiner Bock and eating Moon Pies. Burgundy had an orange Fanta.

Monday I managed to drag myself into consciousness long enough to note that I could not stand without dizziness from the congestion, and my ears and throat hurt horrifically. I told Burgundy that it felt like someone was stabbing a needle into my ear. Burgundy and I drove into town, where I called Christi for help. She recommended Zyrtec D. I dropped $23 without hesitation and took one in the parking lot.

We drove to the Prime Outlet Malls for girl shopping time, where I slavered and swore and tried not to drown in my own snot while finding a parking spot.

We shopped. Not as much as Burgundy would have liked and a little too much for my liking, but we both picked up some nice and needed stuff.

Once home, Mark announced that he'd found free venues in Austin. I almost stayed home, but Mark really wanted me to go. We saw a band called Trey Brown at the Mohawk on Red River, and Mark and Burgundy saw a documentary about chip music at Alamo Draft House. By the time it started at 10, I felt fairly certain that my own death by cranial implosion was imminent, so I parked the car, kicked the seat back, and slept until they called to say they were done. I took another Zyrtec on the way home and fell into bed in a heap upon arrival.

I woke several times throughout the night to blow rivers of snot out of my sinuses. Rivers. I'm pretty sure I blew the Amazon out of my nose last night.

This morning I woke at around 9 AM and took another Zyrtec. I made a heavenly quiche this morning chock full of leeks and kale. I downed it with potentially lethal coffee and some revoltingly sweet orange juice. I really wish I had thought to bring my Vitamin C tablets.

Now I'm sitting in the garage, borrowing a neighbor's unlocked wireless and telling you about the amazing adventures of a Snot Mommy.

I'm desperate enough to try my last resort remedy, one that works pretty well but is beyond the pale in terms of its Nasty Factor: 1 table spoon of apple cider vinegar, a bit of water, and some honey. I will drink it, and it will clear my systems - all of them - out. For a little while, anyway.

I'm back. And Moving on.

Oh, Internet. You make me crazy, you know that? Who would have thought I could feel an obligation to essentially imaginary personalities on the internet?

I'm sorry I haven't posted. I've wanted to but have been unable to figure out how to communicate things. I've decided on a bulleted update format. I would love to discuss each major happening in detail, but it's not really practical. After all, this is the Internet.

1. Julia moved out last Sunday. She still lives in the community with another family. We don't know them. Ultimately, I think we made the right decision, but it was heart-wrenching. 
2. We're still having some pretty significant family issues, but we're working through them.
3. Mark just celebrated his 35th birthday. Happy birthday, Mark!
4. The house is coming along nicely. It's stayed more or less the same, although I did finish rearranging the living room. Given the level of chaos in our lives lately, staying the same is quite a feat.
5. Tonight is the final performance of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat at our church. 

After tonight's performance, we're putting Burgundy into the spare bedroom for the next couple of weeks while we gut Burgundy's room of stuff and get her a fresh start. Her room is a pained amalgamation of 14 years of sentimentality. Enough is enough. I don't even want her living in there while we do it. This effort will be the focus of my blog for the next couple of weeks.

The Lenten Season

Lent. I'm not Catholic. I'm a moderately respectable Methodist with traditionalist (i.e., Catholic and Orthodox) leanings. I very much agree with the Scottish Twins about why their family celebrates Lent.


Hm. i really like the idea of either giving up complaining or daytime internet. I hadn't decided yet whether to give anything up (Yeah, I'm late), but giving up internet during the day sounds like a very useful temptation to wrestle. Here's why: I gave up TV fifteen years ago when I still smoked, drank and uh other stuff in college. I couldn't keep up with the party schedule and the boy schedule and the school schedule AND the TV schedule, so I ditched the TV. Sold it to my mom for $100 bucks and used the money on more liquor (to the best of my recollection). I've never wanted it back, and as I've matured, I've discovered that when it's on, I'm grouchier, have a shorter temper, and get less done. And the mean lasts, too. I'm a little more cutting for hours after watching. So while we watch movies together on our computer and projector and even watch an occasional TV show, I don't and won't own a TV. However, internet is becoming my new TV. You know those people who let their house go to foreclosure swearing there's no money while paying $150 per month for cable? Well, internet service is the thing I don't know if I could let go. Actually, I think I could let it go. There's always the library if it comes to that. I don't know if Mark could or would though. Well, he would. If we couldn't pay our bills and had trouble buying food, he would definitely give up internet. But only after trimming everything else in the budget.


However, internet at work is getting out of hand. It's very easy to get distracted during a mind-numbing repetitive task (o yes. repetitive taskeses; I haz dem) to look up something that wanders through my brain, and next thing you know, I've been reading blogs for 10 minutes. Uh, ripping off my employer: not what I had in mind for the day.


So yes, I will be using the internet only for work purposes for the rest of Lent. Happily, I'm not actually Catholic or Orthodox, so I need not self-flagellate over waiting until the third day of Lent to address it.

Insert Clever Title Here

Yesterday ended up being a much bigger deal than I expected. DH needed surgery to repair a minor hernia and to remove a couple of lumpy masses from his right thigh. The masses have been there nearly a decade, so we don't think they're anything serious, but the doctor is sending them off for analysis anyway.

The surgery should have been really minor, and I suppose it wasn't on the scale of a hysterectomy or something. The recovery really tore him up, though. The hospital wouldn't let him leave until he peed. And five hours after waking from the surgery, he still couldn't go. Even worse, the nurses insisted that he walk to the toilet, and it took him at least three hours from the first attempt to stand to successfully walk a grand total of maybe 30 feet.

Every time he stood, dizziness set in, and we'd have to hold him up while he drooled into a barf bag. Poor baby. At 7:00, they moved him from day surgery recovery to a room upstairs, and half an hour later, I left to eat dinner. About 8:30, he called to announce his successful urination. I've never felt so proud.

Meanwhile, my friend Hannah took Burgundy to her Joseph rehearsal at the church, and both girls took care of getting their own dinner. Mark and I finally made it home around 9:30, and I put him straight into the bed, where he is right now.

On a completely different note, today is day 1 of the 3rd week of the Couch to 5K program. For the first time, I'm well and truly intimidated. For week 1, we had to run 60 seconds and walk 90 seconds. Easy peasy. For week 2, we had to run 90 seconds, and walk 2 minutes. I'm sure we couldn't have done week 2 without first running week 1, but it still didn't strike fear into my thighs. However, I feel totally unprepared for week 3. First up, as soon as the 5 minute warm up ends, we have to run 3 minutes, then walk 3 minutes.

Oh my GOD YOU GUYS I CAN'T DO THAT YET THREE MINUTES? NO! NOO! NOOOOOO!

Ahem.

Seriously. Three minutes? I can barely knit for three minutes. I don't have that kind of attention span. My legs don't have that kind of attention span.

We're going to do it today, and if we finish and want to die a horrible death, we'll spend the rest of week 3 repeating week 2. Burgundy had a horrible stitch about halfway through the third run of week 2, so I'm a little worried about her starting up week 3, but I think it's just a training thing.

Naggy Mom

If you remember, I recently started following the Naggy [profanity redacted] on Ravelry for housecleaning plans and tips. It's working remarkably well.

Housecleaning

A friend who comes over often came in yesterday and went kind of wild about how great the place looks. She said the house seems to have gotten bigger.

The best part? I'm staying on top of it. There are little things here and there that I haven't been able to bring myself to do. But for the most part, it's looking good.

Here's what I do every day before work:

• Make my bed
• After my shower, grab my washcloth and swipe the dirtiest surface in the bathroom before I toss it in the hamper
• Empty the dishwasher, which should be full of sparkly, clean dishes from the previous evening's delightful game of Crack The Whip Over Your Teens Who Hate You and Know You Are Out To Get Them. If I lost that game, then I load the dishwasher instead of emptying it.

When I get home from work:

• Spend 2 minutes (timed, yo) on a crap magnet. This is a surface in my house that just magnetizes crap. For some, it's their kitchen counter. For others, it's the desk. We have an abundance of crap-magnets in our house; some aren't even horizontal (yes, the fridge).
• Process ONE load of laundry. I don't care about wrinkles, so I let laundry sit in the dryer once it's done. So for this task, I fold yesterday's clean clothes right out of the dryer, throw the clothes sitting in the washer into the dryer, and then throw a load into the washer from the waiting basket. Then my load is done for the day, and I can forget about it.
• Open and process the mail. I don't let myself get up from the desk until the mail is filed, tossed, set in the shredder pile, or schedule (and filed)
• 15 minutes on my current declutter project (currently the craft room)

That's my basic routine. On different days, I like to add other things in. For example, I'm about to start a project to relocate a major piece of furniture (white Ikea 5x5 Expedit bookcase) from the living room to the library. I'm very excited about it. I'll post before and after pictures next week (hopefully). So today I have a task to spend 15 minutes moving books from one room to the other.

Family Planning (but not like that)

Mark and I have also scheduled a weekly 30 - 45 minutes to synchronize our calendars and double check the budget. Mark is the calendar nerd, and I'm the budget nerd. We set the timer for 15 minutes and review the calendar for that long. He's really good about writing EVERYTHING down, so this generally is his chance to make sure my calendar is up to date. We also plan who will pick up the kids from different activities. This week we had to figure out how to work around Mark's scheduled surgery. He's having a hernia repaired.

After 15 minutes, we reset the time and spend another 15 looking at the budget, evaluate whether we have any unplanned expenses coming up for the week and try to figure out how to pay for them. Once that's over, if we have any more energy and haven't started arguing, we wrap up any loose ends.

Overall, we're beginning to really get a handle on things around here. Our goal for February (financially) is to recover to the point that we have our Baby Emergency Fund back in place. In order to really do that, we'll need to stay on top of everything else.

And Now for Something Completely Different

Most everyone has heard that Obama proposed spending caps over the next few years, and to be honest I think he's right to do so. Unfortunately, in his budget proposal released today, he proposed canceling my bread and butter outright: NASA's Constellation Program. For now, I'm still employed, but that might not last until September. Our goal now is to fund our emergency fully before the pink slip comes. Thank goodness this bill has to get through Congress first. And that our work has a 30-day stop-work notification clause. 

An Update on the Algebra

Burgundy just finished her semester exam in Pre-AP Algebra II, and advanced, junior-level course. Going by age, Burgundy should be in 8th grade. God willing, she'll be rescheduled for Algebra II enriched within a few days. Her teacher recommended it; the head of the math department agreed. I sent the request to her principal this morning after discussing it with her counselor, and I think she's a good, strong candidate.

The chapter 5 exam went really well, all things considered. To Katie: You are our hero. Thank you so much for all your hard work and all your time. I know how difficult it is to give over so many hours of your life to someone, and I (and I know Burgundy does too) really appreciate all that you've given. Without your help, I really don't think she could have pulled this off.

She made an 82. It pulled her nine week grade up to a 71. That's a D, and we're immensely proud of it. There were many times when Mark, with his math and science degrees, and Katie, with her education background and [math or physics?] degree, looked at the assignments and said, "Whaaa?" Burgundy hung in there, and she earned a D with more work than any A I ever earned in high school. I am proud.

The teacher probably will need a couple of days to grade and post the grades for today's semester exam. With all the work that Burgundy put into preparing for it, I prayed for an 80 or higher.

I'll keep you posted on the outcome.

Oh, and last night I made fish tacos. I baked four small tilapia fillets with a spice rub, chopped up some cabbage, pulled out the salsa and tortillas, and voila! dinner.

Tonight, I'm springing for pizza at a friend's house so Burgundy can test the neighborhood's peripheral vision. Last night she tested everyone at knitting and someone's spouse for good measure. She's up to 25 people tested now. We just might make it.

Home Repair Updates

I slept in this morning and hauled myself out of bed at 9:15. I washed the last of the dishes from last night's dinner and made myself a cup of coffee, then surfed Ravelry for a few minutes. I've just finished wiping down the stove. I am not a fan of cleaning, but it's satisfying to have a pristine stove or sink.

Mark and JB finished putting in the new front door last night, and JB also finished installing a new porch light. From the inside, it feels like an entirely new house; we bought a fiberglass door (tax credit) with an oval leaded glass insert. It allows so much light into the house that the foyer looks about a foot wider than it is.

Remaining to do today is more mudding in the master bathroom, installing the casing outside and inside the new front door, and packing up to go to San Antonio.

That's right, we went to Austin, came home for one day, installed a new front door, and are leaving again forthwith. Assuming the car is fixed.

That's the other thing. The car's battery light came on again. I called the mechanic, and he told me to bring it on out, but I told him no. I told him I was going to get a couple of second opinions, and I'd call him back and let him know what they said. He didn't answer when I called back. I'm sad because I've used this guy for over 10 years and really like him, but he really blew it on this repair. I told him it was more than just a loose belt, but he didn't listen. His loss.

The two mechanics I've talked with said it's either a bad/loose bolt on the alternator itself that shakes loose with the vibration of the car or it's a bad harmonic balancer. The mechanic we left it with said he'd look at it this morning and let us know the final answer. He couldn't guarantee that it would be fixed today, so we might have to rent a car for the trip to San Antonio. Not ideal, but do-able.

With the bit of day I have left to me before the packing and preparations begin, I'm going to take a shower. In my newly installed bathroom shower.

Home Again

We are home from Austin, thank heavens. I'm sure Austin was wonderful, awesome, and life-changing for everyone, but I spent half the visit in the motel bed moaning in agony. Absolute misery.

Sometime Sunday night, my poor tummy started to ache, and it all went downhill from there. I'll spare you the gory details.

Julia, Burgundy, Mark, and JB went to the Texas State Capitol Building, and then they went to the Texas Chili Parlor for lunch. I swear, I don't understand how those girls can stand to be vegetarians living in this state. I laid in bed at the motel with a fever of 101.9.

After lunch, they came back to the motel, and Mark took me to IHOP for Saltines and Sprite. I also wolfed down two pancakes without syrup or butter (but with the tiniest smearing of honey). Then I went back to the motel and went back to sleep. Mark, Julia, JB, and Burgundy went out again. I have no idea where.

Sometime around 7 I woke again. Fever was down to 100.0. I felt competent to resume knitting; it had been nearly 24 hours. I know, right? Too long.

I finished one of Julia's socks (I was on the toe already) and began working on the other sock.

The family returned to the motel. They had eaten at a Korean vegetarian restaurant with crappy service. My fever was down to 98.2. Mark took me to an Irish pub; I was feeling much, much better. I ate shepherd's pie.

Tuesday we woke, checked out of the motel, and the boys dropped Burgundy, Julia and I at South Congress. They went to art museums. I hung out at Hill Country Weavers, and the girls shopped their way down So. Congress.

After lunch, JB and Mark picked us up, and we all went to Alamo Drafthouse to see Sherlock Holmes. Dear, Sweet, Cuddly Baby Jesus, but I have a thing for Robert Downey Jr. I would LOVE to bite him. He needs to be bitten. Seriously.

Good Morning, Internet!

It's 9AM, and our brand new, beautiful German cuckoo clock just went off. It's the real deal, straight from Germany with beautiful pinecone weights for the winders and a tiny little bluebird for the cuckoo. And it goes off every hour on the hour. And every half-hour. We've had a little trouble getting the weight just right on the pendulum, but it chimed 9 times at 9:00 AM (and 10 at 10:00 AM), so I'm thrilled.

Of course, I am alone to revel in its beauty. Every other soul in this house is sound asleep. Scratch that; I think Mark just got up.

We had a marvelous Christmas. My mom gave Burgundy and I matching monkey slippers, and she gave Burgundy jeans and a dress and Julia some cute, pink scrapbooking supplies.

Julia had gifts sent over from Germany; they were so awesome and sweet! She gave me a fountain pen and refills (I raved over Burgundy's at the beginning of the school year), a beautiful necklace, and a jar of pear jam. I seriously considered hand-writing this entry before posting just so I could use the pen, but I realized my hand would be so sore I wouldn't want to type it later. Alas, the pen sits unused. For now.

For Mark, they sent a bottle of cherry liqueur (it's 80 proof, y'all!) for use in making a real Black Forest Cherry cake; if we weren't totally sugared out from the holidays, I would make one today! She gave him a magnetic desk toy and a really nice set of markers like the ones she brought over for herself. He'd been eyeing her marker set enviously because, like me, he's an office supply hound. Oh, and she gave him a triangular protractor. These presents (with the possible exceptions of the markers and the liqueur) would bore me to death, but My Favorite Nerd loved them. They were perfect for him, as mine were for me.

They also sent a gift to the family: the German cuckoo clock I mentioned earlier. It's so beautiful, and I've wanted one for so long.  I'm just thrilled.

We had two gifts that kept us in screams of laughter all morning. The first was Burgundy's gift to me: The first one opened. She gave me a miniature hazard sign with a motion-activated fart detection and warning system. Every time someone took a picture, the flash set it off; sirens wailed, the orange light flashed, and a loud voice would yell, "WARNING! DANGEROUS GASES DETECTED! FOLLOW-THROUGH IS IMMINENT! WARNING" There were seven or eight other messages, all of them equally hilarious, but that's the one I remember.

The second hilarious gift came from Julia to Burgundy. Early on, Julia asked what Burgundy would want for Christmas. I explained that Burgundy collects nutcrackers, and a genuine, German-made nutcracker would be enormously precious to her. Julia was really excited about this, and immediately called her parents and set them to work. Christmas morning, Burgundy unwrapped her first gift from Julia: a long slender package containing a really sleek, very sophisticated, and undeniably usable nutcracker.

And Burgundy compares last year's UT nutcracker to this year's Genuine German nutcracker.

Mark scored major points this year with jewelry. A stunning ruby and diamond necklace, earring, and ring set. Mark is really not a jewelry guy. Aside from my wedding ring, the only jewelry he's ever given me is a set of white gold hoop earrings. I think it really tears at his inner utilitarian to give people he loves things they can't really use. That makes me extra happy and honored to receive these from him. It means he not only saw what I wanted, but overcame his own urge to pragmatism to buy them for me. AND he bought them on Black Friday, which was when we were in the midst of huge Marital Distress. It was bad enough that we were talking divorce while crying with each other because we didn't want to. That he went out and bought me something so beautiful, romantic, and impractical in the midst of that hell and upheaval really speaks to my heart. I love that man; I really do. The chains around our necks were a gift of bling from Burgundy to Mark.

There were tons of other gifts, but I'll hit some highlights. The t-shirts I ordered for Mark and JB had not yet come in, so I printed the cartoons for each of them and put them in their stockings with a note that said, "You shoulda had this on a t-shirt." I bought Mark the Useless cartoon, and JB the woodpecker (the t-shirt only has the last panel).

Burgundy got a photo printer and scanner. Both girls got Doc Marten vinyl knock-off boots; Burgundy received bright green, and Julia received hot pink. I bought them both tights, and Burgundy also received  two more charms for her charm bracelet: a monkey (because I call her Rat-Monkey) and a music note. I tried to knit them both socks; Julia received two socks both knit to about the 3/4 mark, and Burgundy received one fully knit sock. They both received a pair of felted slippers, and I knit Julia a Giant Stocking of Doom to match Burgundy's.

Surrounded by their puddles of goodies, I said, "Okay, it's time to open your big gifts now." I waved Julia's smallest package in the air.

Julia said, "What? There's a big one after all this?"

Realizing I'd just potentially given something away, I said, "Yeah, we bought you a ticket home!" Julia huffed (she sounds just like Meryl Streep doing Julia Child when she huffs), and we all laughed; I told Burgundy to open her present, and she discovered the printer.

I handed Julia her gift. She said, "I can't believe there's more after all of this!" The terrible irony is that we paid nowhere near full price for any of the gifts. Burgundy's biggest gift was about 70% off. For Julia's we paid just over half price. She tore the wrapping paper off and removed the protective film and then just sat there with her mouth hanging open and said, "You're crazy! You're all just crazy!" We gave her an iPod touch.

We'd planned on spending about $170 on each girl. We originally bought Julia an iPod Nano for about $140, and then I picked up everything else she received in her stocking and in regular gifts for right at $30. I found leggings on clearance, tank tops on clearance, etc. About a week later, our friend Anthony came to us and asked if we still needed an iPod for Julia for Christmas. He'd received an iPod Touch - what Julia really wanted and had planned to buy for herself until I dissuaded her) - from the company he was leaving, and he planned to sell it. The Touch came with a package of protective sleeves and a $15 gift card. All together, the package was worth about $225. Anthony offered to sell us the package for $150. Off to Fry's Mark ran to return the Nano, which after tax had been $149. So we managed to do this HUGE Christmas for her while staying more or less on budget.

For Burgundy, we found her biggest Christmas present, the printer, for $30 on Black Friday. I picked up it and the biggest family gift, Beatles Rock Band, on three hours' sleep that morning. The Rock Band game was much cheaper, too, going for $150 instead of $200, if I remember correctly.

I know Mark got a deal on my jewelry, though of course, I won't ask him. The really exciting things are that once again, we've had a wonderful, fun, relatively stress-free Christmas with Burgundy's dad, and we did our Christmas on budget.

Merry Christmas, everyone!