30 Day Internet Cleanse

Original post date: January 21, 2014 (Moving my content from one blog to another. It just feels right.)

My constant access to Wi-Fi is making me insane -- a fact that we established with my last post. So instead of whining about it again, I'm going to do something about it.

I quit.

You hear me internet?! I quit!! (For 30 days, with stipulations and exceptions, because I'm not a complete caveman.)

Here's why:

1. I love to read. I was the kid that stayed up way too late squinting in front of her nightlight, trying to finish Little House on the Prairie before dawn. But since iPhone came into my life, I'm reading less and scrolling and tapping more. Unacceptable.

2. Facebook makes me feel weird. I'm too neurotic and too much of an overthinker for this stuff. Like, "Hey, I think we're friends in real life, but how come we're not virtual friends? We haven't asked each other yet, is there a reason for that? Maybe you have pictures of your cat that you don't want me to see? That's cool. I respect your privacy, but is it weird that we bump into each other via the comments section? Should I just click "add friend?" I don't know how to handle myself in this complicated social arena!!!!" (That said, there are some lovely people that I just love, love, love and facebook is our main vehicle for communication due to distance and/or busy lives. Tricky.)

3. My four-year-old pulls his "tricks" (you know, jumping up and down, going into downward facing dog and then waving one leg in the air, jumping off the back of the couch, etc.) out the "app store in his foot." This probably isn't a real problem but it does remind me of our vast generational gap, made larger by the time warp that is technology.

4. Pinterest. Oh Pinterest, you evil seductress with all of your life-enhancing possibilities. Crockpot meals for $2.00? How to get shiny hair in 5 minutes? The perfect sensory dough to occupy my child for hours of screen-free engagement? Yes please. Here's the problem. Pinterest also reminds me on a daily basis that:

a. My crafts always look mediocre. b. My cakes typically sink in the middle. c. My outfits are never that put together. d. Nothing in my house matches except the dirt.

So, my dear Pinterest. I will no longer let you set the bar for my perceived level of awesomeness. My cakes might look like crap, but they are so delicious. We need a break, because, at this point in my life, I feel better without you. (However, I would like to thank you for DIY lotion bars, DIY baby wipes, and Ritz crackers with Rolos melted inside. Life changing.)

5. Breastfeeding. I often find myself breastfeeding while balancing my iPhone on my sweet baby's head. Enough. That is simply enough.

So for 30 days I will quit facebook, pinterest, google searches (unless work-related), basically everything online, with the exception of:

-Email (because my boss wouldn't find my technology cleanse amusing)

-My articles (because they pay me, duh)

-This blog (because going tippity-tap at the keyboard soothes my soul)

It starts tonight. Goodbye internet.

Parenting in the Age of Information, Or Google Exacerbates My Neuroses

Call yourself a good parent? Click. Click. Sucker. I'll show you. Click. Click.

Original post date: January 13, 2014 (Moving my content from one blog to another. It just feels right.)

With the click of a mouse I can access immediate information on virtually any topic in the world. I no longer feel the need to ponder or wonder. Google can answer all of my questions. They say that knowledge is power and I personally feel like I have heaps of power, pressing down on my shoulders, watching my every move. This adds an interesting burden to my life. A burden I couldn't have imagined in 1993, as I happily purchased bags of flour and extra wagon wheels on the virtual Oregon Trail. (That was the peak of technology as far as I'm concerned. We should have stopped there.)

More specifically, this burden of knowledge has turned me into "neurotic mommy" or "the mommy who knows too much" or more accurately, "the mommy who has mere surface knowledge of many topics, turning her into a terrified, ranting maniac."

Observe.

1. Dropping my three-year-old off at school.

Me: "Bye honey, I love you. Be good. Listen to your teachers!"

Google: Wrong. What is the matter with you? Are you trying to get your child abducted? Telling your child to "be good" and to "listen" implies that they should blindly comply with all adult directions, making them more susceptible to potential pedophiles, creepies, and villains in general. Come on now!

Me: "Um, okay, don't be good, be um, assertive and discerning and watch out for weirdos in vans? Forget it. Just have a great day."

Do. Not. Get. Into. Van. Ever.

2. Feeding my baby solid food.

Me: "Kootchie kootchie koo, baby girl! Do you want some yum-yums? Yes!! You want yum-yums!! Mommy getchyou yum-yums!

How about some yummy, yummy rice cereal?"

Google: Nope. Rice is teeming with arsenic. Carcinogen. Try again.

Me: "How about some yummy chicken? Protein!"

Google: Okay, super-mom. That cutlet is laced with antibiotics and hormones. Do you want her to grow breasts in time for kindergarten?

Me: "Um, okay. How about a banana? That's not even on the Environmental Working Group's Dirty Dozen list."

Google: Sure, the thick peel may protect the fruit from most of the pesticides, but did you ever think about the 8-year-old Ecuadorian child picking the fruit as she is working the fields, getting doused with said pesticides? It's not just about your baby, ya selfish Sally. Think globally.

Me: "Christ almighty! I'm exhausted. Let's just have a nice, cool glass of tap water."

Google: Idiot.

3. Cleaning my house.

Me: "Well, I only clean my house with vinegar, baking soda and essential oils, so I'm sure that I'm getting this one right."

Google's BFF Pinterest: You're going to clean your house instead of chasing rainbows with your precious children? Monster.

Me: "But, but, but... Have you seen my house?"

These are really my dishes. This is what my sink looks like. Right now.

Google: Sure. Wash those dishes. But soon you'll be a lonely old woman with an empty womb in an empty house. You can just sit in your rocking chair and remember washing dishes. Alone.

Google: Alone. All alone. With just your memories of dishes, laundry, and baking soda in the toilet. But go ahead, don't let me stop you.

Aren't you glad you neglected your children so you could wash those dishes?

Me: "Oh God." (Sobbing quietly.)

4. Reacting to my son's tantrum. 

Me: "For the love of God buddy. You're being ridiculous. This cup is too yellow? Is that even a thing? Give me a break." (Sigh loudly. Look longingly at wine bottle. Remind self that it is 10:30 in the morning.)

Google: Nice job. You're probably creating a future sociopath. Belittling his problems. Failing to really listen and empathize. Research shows that an effectively empathetic response to his tantrums now will reduce the frequency of tantrums in the future. Furthermore, his prefrontal cortex (that little part of his brain that controls social behavior and regulates emotions) is not yet developed at this age. Are you really chastising him for his typical development? Hey, hey! Are you even listening to me?! Focus! Quit looking at that wine bottle!!

Me: Glug, glug, gulp.

So. As you can see, the Internet has turned me into a raving lunatic who may or may not drink wine before Sesame Street is over.

Screw you Google.

Live the Dream. DIY Deodorant.

Original post date: December 29, 2013 (Moving my content from one blog to another. It just feels right.)

Like many, I share the new American dream. You know the one? The one where I live in a beautiful cabin in the woods with Wi-Fi and an expensive coffee maker. I wear adorable Fair Isle sweaters and galoshes while I milk my goats and gather eggs from my chicken coop. I never go to Winco or Albertsons, cause girl, I grow my own damn tomatoes. They're organic. They're delicious. I even grow them during winter in the greenhouse my sexy husband made me. He has a beard (true). He writes poetry about how cute I am in my sweaters (false).

Anyhoo.

The dream is not quite realized, but I'm working on it. My latest revelation is... wait for it... get ready...

HOMEMADE DEODORANT!!!

It's natural. It's aluminum-free. I made it in my kitchen while drinking cheap wine. And best of all, it actually works! For real.

I put it to the test on Christmas Eve and Christmas. I figured if it could stand up to the rigors of frantic present-wrapping, Santa impersonations, late-night meltdowns, hours of cream-based casserole cooking, in-laws, and our Christmas day relay race through Western Washington, it was a winner.

And it is. A winner.

In fact, I think it works better than commercial deodorant.

Want to try it? Of course you do.

1/4 cup coconut oil

2 tablespoons cornstarch

1 1/2 tablespoons baking soda

Essential oil if you so desire

I globbed a quarter cup of coconut oil into my small glass jar. (This jar used to house Hot and Sweet Pepper Jelly which is probably one of my favorite things to eat with cream cheese.)

Be sure to write "deodorant" and draw a smiley face somewhere on the jar, lest you become confused and smear it on a cracker.

I put the lid on, threw it in a saucepan of water, and heated the water until the coconut oil melted. Then I threw in the cornstarch and baking soda and stirred until smooth. I added a few drops of peppermint and vanilla essential oils because I love to smell of candy canes. I gave it a couple hours to solidify and... that's it. Deodorant!

Now, I just dip my finger in the jar, smear a bit onto my underarms and I'm ready to milk a goat! Super easy.

Thanks to my extensive research (poking around Pinterest while nursing my baby), I know that some people can be sensitive to the baking soda. If that's the case, just reduce the amount a bit. I've personally had zero issues, but you never know. Maybe I'm just insensitive.

This Cobbler is Delicious.

Original post date: August 24, 2014 (Moving my content from one blog to another. It just feels right.)

I ate an entire 9 x 13 pan of blackberry cobbler in less than 24 hours.

It was that good. Chewy, buttery crust, gooey blackberries...

In the mood to binge eat the world's best cobbler? You too can eat yourself into oblivion by following a few simple steps.

1. Pick a bowl of wild blackberries with your 3-year-old. Talk about pollination, the meaning of the word jealous, and whether or not Spiderman has a penis. (Really, I am not equipped to handle the questions of a 3-year-old.)

2. Put the baby on a blanket in the grass and watch her wave her chubby fists at the sky and talk to trees. Make goo-goo noises and cluck your tongue at her.

3. Bring berries and children inside and turn the oven to 350.

4. Put a stick of butter in a 9 x 13 pan and put butter and pan in the heating oven.

5. In a large bowl combine 2 cups self-rising flour, 2 cups white sugar, and 2 cups milk. Stir until combined. Will be lumpy.

6. Take the 9 x 13 pan out of the oven when the butter is melted. Pour the lumpy batter on top of it. Do not mix them together.

7. Feed your 3-year-old blackberries in manner of mama and baby bird. He will reciprocate and laugh maniacally when he feeds you a blackberry with a little spider on it.

8. Pretend that you don't care that you just ate a spider.

9. Sprinkle 3-4 cups of blackberries on top of the batter.

10. Bake for 50-60 minutes, until golden brown.

Enjoy! I recommend eating it directly out of the pan with a spoon while small people pull at your yoga pants and demand things. Delicious.

Three Best Reasons to be a Teacher: June, July, August!

Original post date: August 21, 2013 (I'm moving my content from one blog to another. It just feels right.)

I have a confession to make. I accidentally/on purpose stole this mug. It used to live in the staff lounge. Then I used it for coffee and it moved to my classroom. There it lived, buried behind the Jack-o-lantern bowl and paintbrushes for a few months. Spring cleaning unearthed said mug and I decided to borrow it for the summer. Kind of like taking the class hamsters home over vacation. (Speaking of, I won that lottery in 1989. I felt so lucky. I felt even luckier when the allegedly female hamsters had a baby together and my horrified mother agreed to let me keep it. I named the baby Squeaky. This was a clever name because it squeaked a lot. In retrospect I think something was terribly wrong with it. We went to the grocery store and when we came back Squeaky was gone. Vanished without a trace. That was a difficult time in my life. Filial cannibalism is a hard concept for a second grader.) Anyway, I told myself I'd return the mug in the fall but this is my second year with it and I can't seem to let go. It holds my life-sustaining coffee every morning. It holds cheap red wine on sunny afternoons. I like to sit on the deck with my mug of wine and sing songs from high school. "Today is gonna be the day that they're gonna throw it back to you."

All that to say, I love my stolen mug.

The mug is kind of ironic, so that makes me feel hipster-cool. It's also kind of true, so that makes me feel authentic. These are good feelings. The truth in the mug is that summer is a really good time for me. The only kids I have to worry about are mine. That streamlines things a bit. I like streamlining. So now, August is quickly ticking by and I am in my end of summer mourning period. It's worse this year because I have a new sweet baby. She smells like milk and she looks at me like I'm the sun. Tell me. How am I supposed to leave this?

Another Birth Story. Because the Internet Needs More.

Original post date: July 19, 2013 (Moving my content from one blog to another. It just feels right.)

I had a baby. Her initials are not JAR. This is bothersome because it breaks the pattern. However. I refused to name her Jessica or Jezebel. So she's baby DLR? Not catchy. But the truth often isn't. No matter. She's a keeper anyway.

So baby DLR was born three months ago. Already, the memories of pain and suffering have diminished with time. I can nuzzle my face in the nape of her neck and sigh, "it wasn't so bad," her heady scent rendering me drunk with new baby love. Those mommy hormones don't mess around.

But if I really concentrate, I seem to remember hours of searing pain, intense vomiting and wishing that someone would punch me in the back. (That seemed like a great solution at the time... a sort of counter-pain? No one was willing. The nurse seemed to think it would be some sort of liability. Modern medicine. Puh!)

I'm not really interested in writing about all of the details. Centimeters, effacement, contractions. Boring. What I really remember are just a handful of moments. Moments I hope to hold on to forever.

My daughter took twice as long as my son. We all expected her to arrive in the car or parking lot with lots of screaming and excitement. That's not her style. She took her sweet, sweet time. What's that phase of labor that comes right before pushing? The really terrible one? Transition or something? Well during that phase I remember bending over the hospital bed pressing the side of my face into the mattress. The back labor was excruciating. I had to completely succumb to the pain and try not to die. I couldn't move. I could barely breathe. I just stared vacantly, drool trickling from the side of my mouth.

Big JAR says to my mom, "oh look, she's sleeping."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, her eyes are twitching."

They stare at me tenderly. Poor, exhausted thing.

I must be suffering from temporary locked in syndrome. I can hear them, but I can't respond. I want to scream. "I'm awake you morons! Who on God's green earth could sleep through such shattering pain?! Of course I'm twitching!! My bones are separating to make room for a freakin' person!!! " Instead this comes out as a soft whimper and my husband rubs my back lovingly. Whatever. Probably better for our marriage that I can't speak.

So that's a moment.

When it gets close to pushing time, I haul myself into the birthing tub. The water feels heavenly. I just bob around like mother Earth. I'm between contractions. I stretch out, close my eyes and feel completely present. My birthing mix is softly playing from my iPod. Moon River.

My midwife says, "you know, you really have a beautiful pregnant belly."

My mom says, "Venus de Milo." (Although Venus' stomach is actually pretty flat, I appreciate the sentiment.)

I don't care how much trauma my body endures. I still love a compliment. Even if it's bologna. Keep talking ladies.

That was a moment.

Now it's time to push. My husband sits behind me. My midwife sits in front of me, sipping a ginger ale. She tells me, "your body knows what to do." That's the extent of her coaching. I dig it. I do know what to do. My hips were made for this. I am Ixchel, Lucina or any other fertility deity. So I push. While I push, I scream. Like a maniac, banshee and/or wounded animal.

Once I can feel the top of her head, I shift my inarticulate shrieks into a two-word mantra -- "my baby, my baby, my baby, my baby" until she arrives. Slick with vernix, red and screaming, absolute perfection. I hold her and sob with joy, relief, and ferocious love.

That was the moment.

I Did Not Get To Fill a Box With Pink or Blue Balloons

November 19, 2012

Tomorrow is the day. The day I find out the gender of this little, kicky baby in my belly. I woke up at 3:30 in the morning and am still awake, so I think I'm pretty excited about it. I keep trolling around Pinterest, looking at all of the big, showy ways I can make the pink or blue announcement. Attractive couples in pea coats kiss each other over boxes brimming with blue balloons. A glowing mother lovingly gazes at her slice of pink cake with tear-brimmed eyes. A woman with absolutely no body fat and a perfectly round, toned pregnant belly, wraps her naked torso in blue ribbons. What. Ev. Er.

I like a production. I like big events. I like attention. I also li...

..............................three days later.....................................

November 22, 2012

I never finished this post because I had go brush baby JAR's teeth, put on pants, take out the recycling, go to the grocery store, etc. etc. etc.

And now, instead of processing the gender of my unborn child, I am processing a car accident. A car accident with highway speeds, a semi truck, a concrete median, and me and my two precious babies.

Typically, car accidents are not funny. Unless it's a fender bender in a parking lot involving a clown balancing a stack of banana cream pies and an overweight streaker, fresh from a nearby football game. Maybe throw in a street performance artist with a couple hula hoops. That could be funny.

My car accident lacked clowns and nudity. It was not funny. So, this post will be a purely selfish, let me process my emotions through my keyboard, dear diary, type of story. I will probably cry. Good thing you can't see me. I cry like a two-year-old.

On the afternoon of our ultrasound appointment, I picked up baby JAR from daycare, and headed down the highway to meet my husband at the midwife's office. We live in a place that rains all of the time. We're kind of known for it. Real locals don't carry umbrellas. We just absorb the moisture through our sun-deprived pores. So, of course it was raining. Not heavily, but it had been raining for several days. This is nothing new or out of the ordinary.

I happily puttered down this 55 mile per hour highway, which happens to go down a very steep hill. Baby JAR was in the back, quietly looking out the window, thinking quiet two-year-old thoughts. I rounded a curve and immediately noticed a giant puddle (more like a pond or small lake) of standing water, directly in front of me. I did not want to go through the standing water. On my right was a semi truck. On my left was a concrete barrier. So I went through the standing water.

My car is small. It is low. It does not have giant tires or magic flying capabilities like Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.  And it just told me that it hates god damn puddles. In spite of this, it bravely attempted the standing water, completely lost contact with the road, and hydroplaned into the trailer of a semi truck. It bounced off the side of the semi truck into the concrete median. It spun around, down the hill, for what felt like two weeks and then landed in the concrete median again. Facing sideways, blocking the highway. Then it died.

The worst part was having no control of the vehicle as it spun and bounced around like a pinball. The worst part was when I thought we were going over the median into oncoming traffic (which thank God did not happen). The worst part was the seat belt and it's unforgiving pressure on the home of my unborn baby. The worst part was baby JAR crying in the backseat, "mommy, make it stop, make it stop mommy."

We are all okay. I am so thankful, grateful, stop and cry with relief joyful. I am also terrified. Life is so fragile. Things have the potential to completely change in seconds. My happiness and sanity completely depend on the health and well-being of two small people, with precious little bones, organs, and beating hearts. If you are a parent, you know that I am not being dramatic when I say that I would simply cease functioning if something happened to them.

More than 24 hours later, I am stiff, bruised, and sore, but the baby's heartbeat is strong and it looks like he/she will be just fine. Baby JAR has two small scrapes on his shoulders from the car seat straps, but is in otherwise perfect condition. Big JAR is in a state of heightened stress from the thought of potentially losing his family and having no power or control to change the unchangeable. I encourage him to work through his complicated feelings by massaging Bengay into my whiplashed neck and shoulders.

So happy Thanksgiving. This holiday means more to me now than ever before. I am thankful for my healthy family, amazing car seats, kind paramedics, and the soft cushion of amniotic fluid. I wish everyone a happy, healthy, and safe season with the people they love.

(We of course missed the ultrasound appointment, but I got an ultrasound in the emergency room. After ascertaining that my baby and placenta looked fine, they checked the gender for us. Baby refused to move his/her foot, so we were given a best guess. There's a "75% chance" that it's a...)

Boy or girl? We're not telling yet...