Grandma Will Get a Taste of Her Own Medicine

Baby Mark needs an ultrasound, today. He has a deep dimple our doctor says may be indicitave of spina bifida occulta and that we should be conservative and have it checked out. Even though my rational mind knows this is what we should do, the other part of me wishes he had said, "You're being paranoid; no more Internet research for you."

Obviously, this was not the answer I received.

Today we will be heading downtown to MUSC. My mother works across the street, so she will watch Sir Thousand Hands during the appointment. Here's where the taste of her own medicine comes in. Every time we visit her she loads my kid up on sweets. I don't keep candy in the house, so by the time we leave he's a spun up, sugar encrusted meltdown. Thanks Mom!

Anyhow, this morning I made our Friday morning treat, oatmeal with maple and brown sugar. I neglected to put away the syrup. A few moments ago I turned at a funny sound. STH was chugging syrup.

Ooooh Grandma, you have no idea what you are in for, today.

Hey Ivy

Miss Ivy, I think I found a book we might both be interested in, The Stakeholder Society. You can find out more, here Economy, Reality, and Us

I found it just meandering through the blogs. I was still cringing from a particularly painful one that probably had music (I mute my sound when I gamble like that). "Wot R u duing?" I know my grammar is far from perfect, but they should bring back flogging for these atrocities.

Not so fast

No really, it isn't fast at all, it's immobile.

What am I babbling on about?

Why my husband's mustang, of course. You see, fourteen months ago he took a perfectly working engine out of his perfectly good car, because it wasn't fast enough.

How's that working for ya?




Keep in mind, I have produced a fully functioning human in less time.

Now, I torment him with MustangRolling's blog. "Hey Tim, look at this, their car works, why doesn't yours?"

I think I'm going to start changing our wallpaper to pics of mobile mustangs. I would really like to park in the garage, on occasion.

Update to Sick

I found them! In the laundry room of all places. Anyhow, my sink traps are now clean, so I guess that's the upside.

The downside is that it's 9am and I'm ready for a drink. Can we say, "Mama is a lush?" haha Very old pic, but it shows the earring I was looking for.




Well, it is shaping up to be a beautiful day. We're headed off to Wannamaker.

Sick

I have misplaced my earrings. I know I picked them up to put them on as we were getting ready to drop Aidan off at my friend's.

I've even pulled the trap off the sink.

I really, really hope Tim picked them up and put them in his pocket.

Stolen Sunday Afternoon

I packed my camera and stole away to Cordesville, this afternoon. It was a gorgeous day and I had some great captures, most of which I'll be posting on my deviantART site. I did not know you could walk down to the Cooper from Old Strawberry Church. I must have been out there for an hour or two and didn't see a soul, not even Little Mistress Chicken. Growing up I was told the church was haunted by six children, but I haven't found the story with Google. Does anyone know the ghoststory?

Good Morning SC!

I am so excited to have finally found my fellow Palmetto bloggers. Now, Ivy, don't get me wrong, I love reading all about Nashville and I can't wait until I can get back up there.

To my fellow Sandlappers*, hello! I'm Heather. I grew up in Ladson and came down with wanderlust in my late teens. I moved to Va Beach, back to the Charleston Area, then byway of my husband, spent five years in Purgatory aka St. Paul, MN. My cross country adventures have taught me to appreciate my true home.

I'm a stay at home mom to two boys, although we really do very little staying at home. We love the Charleston County park system and all this area has to offer. I feel if you can't find something to do around here, you certainly aren't trying.

Anyhow, it is a pleasure to meet you.



*Does anyone else remember that song from state history class "We are good Sandlappers?"

Annoyed

Charlie you let me down! Where were you this afternoon? I got the kids in bed so I could enjoy the broadcast and what did I get for my trouble? Clark Howard. Now, don't get me wrong, he's not the end of the world, but it just wasn't the same.

In all actuality, I hope you are OK.

I'm also not the only one frustrated in my house. Mr. Mark has just started to crawl, but he isn't doing it as well as he'd like. I tell him to cut himself some slack, but he's not listening.

It's Saturday

It's almost noon EST and soon my favorite college professor will be broadcasting his radio show, which is available via the web at WTMA. His show consists of all things nerdly and some politics to boot!
He made quite an impression on me, ten years ago, and I was thrilled to find his show when I moved home.

If you ever have a chance, give him a listen, you just might learn something.

Parting of Ways

Our neighbors moved away this morning; they will be missed. I hope the next people to buy the house can put up with us, have a penchant for microbrews, and enjoy sharing reviews of local restaurants. Unlikely, but I can hope, can't I? We had them over for dinner, last night.

I found my idea for the main course at the grocery store, in the overpriced take it home and cook it section: salmon filets rolled in a spiral around crab stuffing. Try it, if you ever get the chance. It's one of those meals that looks as though they were a lot of work. Recipe to follow.

I haven't had more than a single beer or cocktail in forever. I only had three in the course of several hours, but you couldn't convince my head of that. Ick

Crab Cakes or Stuffing (I call them Crabby Patties and Sir Thousand Hands loves them)
1 lb cleaned crabmeat
1 sleeve ritz crackers (crushed, mutilated, pulverized)
1/4 cup mayo
1/4 cup minced onion
1/4 cup minced bell pepper
dash worcestshire
1/2 tsp dry mustard
2 egg whites (you can use 1 whole egg if you wish, I use the yolks for something else, in this case)
salt, pepper, garlic to taste (I like to add some Old Bay)

Mix well. For crabcakes, form into patties and place in the fridge to set. Pan fry in olive oil or brush with olive oil and bake)

For the salmon spirals: remove skin from the two salmon filets salmon ~ 1lb total and top with crab mixture. Roll the salmon into a spiral and cut in half. You should end up with two spirals, about the size of large cupcakes. Place the cut side down on a parchment paper lined baking sheet. I put them in the fridge, to set. Place in a 375 degree oven and bake for 8 - 10 minutes. While the fish is baking, blend 1 egg yolk with ~ 5tbsp mayo. Brush this mixture all over the fish and stuffing and return it to the oven, bake until golden. (About 5-7 more minutes)

Sprinkle with parsley for color, if desired, and serve with lemon wedges. Any steamed vegetable is a great accompaniment, as are cheese grits. If you're too snobbish for those, polenta will do.

Linda Hirshman Does Not Speak For This Woman

I don't watch television; I heard about this interview secondhand and had to watch the interview on the web.Good Morning America: The Mommy Wars

I don't know why I let this annoy me. I really shouldn't, but it has been eating at me. Perhaps I'm feeling defensive about my own choice to stay home. I'm irritated with Linda Hirshman for perpetuating division between women. Our current lifestyles do enough to interefere with female bonding (for lack of a better word). Hirshman stated to the effect that she isn't judging, she's basing her opinion on Western World History. What about the rest of history? What about how women used to come together in support for life's hardships and joys? Ms. Hirshman, did you happen to see any evidence about how close-knit families used to be? How they helped with childrearing and when someone became ill? We now hire out for those services. It's great for the economy, but how is it for our souls?

I chose to come home. Lying in a hospital bed for a week certainly put a whole lot of perspective on the value of my child. I could have gone back to work. I could be successful with my former employer, but I'd be working restaurant hours and exposing myself to many temptations that are not suited to raising a stable family.

As far as the happiness level that Hirshman continually referred to, there is more to childhood than a "happiness level." There are moral and spiritual foundations to be built. I am of the opinion that they aren't easily instilled on weekends and holidays. Does anyone remember the spike in syphilis the CDC found in Conyers, GA? Just in case a refresher is needed The Lost Children of Rockdale County. These parties were happening in households where both parents were at work. They weren't happening late at night, these occured during those crucial afterschool hours.

Women who stay home are not ruining the feminist movement. We are not opting out. I firmly believe in equal pay for equal work, just like I would believe it for any person, regardless of their circumstance. However, I do not believe in 'equal pay' for unequal work. Women do make sacrifices when they take time out for their families. It is that, a sacrifice, their paychecks or career tracks will suffer, but that is a choice that is made when the decision to have children is chosen. A man who periodically took breaks from the corporate ladder would find the same closed doors. I believe women have worked hard to give us these choices and I appreciate them. I am forever indebted to those who came before me, for having had the ability to attain a formal education and for having had the choice to establish a career. If something were to happen, if my comfortable bubble were to burst, I would have to return to the workforce and I would probably have to retrain, but we have planned for that scenario. I am content with my "mindless routines" and "repetitous job." I knew it going in.

My shallow side has been fighting with me for this entire entry. These comments have no merit, they just make me feel better. To the lady at the end of the interview who says to the effect that her daughter wants to share a desk and work at your magazine: Lady, listen to what you are saying, it may make you happy to hear, but it breaks my heart, she is saying she MISSES her mom and can't wait until she can spend all day with you. Ms. Hirshman, you may be well educated, but you are a lousy elocutionist. You sound as though the marbles that fell out of your head are rolling around your mouth. Finally, Ms. Hirshman, I'm no fashion diva or beauty queen, but, bless your heart, get a decent haircut.

Daytime TV Rots Your Brain

The other day I mentioned that politics are ever so much more interesting than soap operas.

Daytime TV, poor mental scores link

But the findings do point to some association between TV choices and intellectual function, and could prove useful in evaluating older people for cognitive decline, according lead investigator Dr Joshua Fogel of Brooklyn College of the City University of New York.

For example, compared with women who preferred to watch news programs, those who favoured soaps were more than seven times more likely to show signs of impairment on one of the tests, while talk show fans were more than 13 times more likely to demonstrate impairment.

We live somewhat out in the sticks, with very poor tv reception. Every once in a while I think about shelling out a few bucks for basic cable. I don't think it will be a temptation any longer.

Dad of the Year

Well, I hope the woman who chose to reproduce with this guy is proud.

Man's Toddler Son Wanders Into Strip Club

Just a few comments: A three-four year old is a pre-schooler not a toddler. This clarification does NOT make anything any better, I just hate misleading terms. I feel guilty if I have to run in and pay for gas and the rugrats are sleeping.
I just love the charge "encouraging a minor child to be in need of supervision." I wish I could start passing out tickets for that.

Flashing Back

I'm a political geek. I usually have wtma 1250am on in the background so I can keep tabs on things. Well, that is when I'm not being forced to listen to The Wiggles. I must mention that my two year old picked up "dammit" from a spot by Radio Free Rocky D. How do you explain that one to Grandma?

Moving on. . . I was perusing Donna Darlin's Blog over on myspace (aka Emo Teen Hell and found an entry that took me back to highschool.

I was a nerd. No, really, I was (am). I never really had to worry about sharing my seat, it wasn't in high demand. Three quarters of my bus lived by the fairgrounds, some were from Tall Pines and a couple were from Caromi Village (just the name conjures up the smell) This never made much sense to me, it was the potpouri of Stratford's bus routes. I remember sitting there doing my homework, minding my own business; I heard and felt a soft thud. I glanced over at what appeared to be a dead squirrel. I poked the mysterious object with a pencil and realized it was someone's weave. Thankfully, its owner appeared to reclaim it, as I was rendered speechless. She carried it away, clutching it like a trophy. I've never been able to get that image out of my mind.

I stumbled upon

this news article. . .
Child Bride

This morning I sit in front of the computer with tears streaming down my face. I just don't understand. It's not ignorance and it's not a cultural misunderstanding. The people responsible lack even the most basic spark of human compassion.

Hooray for Getting Back on Track

I am so excited to finally be optimistic about getting back to what should be our schedule. Aidan is doing so well; he's just a different kid. He's constantly saying, "Mama! Hear those noises?" He hears the trains again. I thought he'd grown out of getting excited everytime a train went by. No, he had just been unable to hear them.
Friday we joined a group of moms out at CawCaw Interpretive Center, a state park. Aidan had a great time running around with the other kids. The weather was perfect; there wasn't a cloud in the sky. If it weren't for the yellow tinge to everything, it looked more like October than March. I'm not sure what the black pots in the picture were for, to me they look like mosquito breeding vats. Yum-o




Today, I'm going to be brave and hit the library after the gym. I just may be a glutton for punishment.

My Yard of Shame

We live in a somewhat pretentious neighborhood, qualified by the fact that it is rural South Carolina and really there is only a certain attainable level of pretension. We have small children and do our own yardwork. Unfortunately, at times these things can be mutually exclusive. I was quite pregnant, last summer. Wait, that doesn't paint a very accurate picture; let me try again. There are times when God takes a magnifying glass and places it between the sun and the earth. That magnified beam of sunlight focuses on my corner of the world from June through September. Typically, I revel in summer, it is my absolute glory. However, when I'm seven, eight, and nine months pregnant it loses its luster. I did not plan on doing it twice, it just happened that way.

Needless to say, the yard was neglected, last year.

March is weed season, the gass is still dormant, but the weeds grow like wildfire. Well, they do in my yard. Our yard isn't huge, but as I do laps with the lawnmower I feel it stretching and mocking me. Last week, I became disgusted with the condition of our lawn. Well, lawn is probably not accurate as that connotates the actual existence of grass. I enjoy mowing the yard; it is the perfect excuse to be left alone. I've been doing some research and think the mulching mower we've used for the past couple of years has probably been making our weed problem worse. So, I borrowed our neighbor's rear bagger. I will miss them; they are moving to Delaware. I hadn't cut more than one hundred square feet when it died.

As I can't mow the lawn during the day when Tim is at work, the yard weighed heavily on me, all week long. The weeds got taller. I quit taking Sir Thousand hands outside because I could only monitor his whereabouts by the rustling of the weeds. Cars on blocks sprouted, worn out tires and old appliances appeared. I took to wearing dark sunglasses and avoided eye contact with the neighbors.

Finally, Saturday dawned; I anticipated the drying of the dew. I waited until a reasonable hour and called my neighbor to borrow the lawnmower. They are trying to sell their home, so they were thrilled I was finally going to take care of the mess. About halfway through the baby was hungry, so Tim agreed to finish. He made maybe two laps around the yard before it died on him.

So, the yard had a few more hours with which to tease me. Tim came home with a lawnmower and now I feel positively spoiled. I am so stoked, this one has power drive. I hope this will be the last time we are the the disgrace of the neighborhood.

We Escaped!

This is Aunt Teppy, my sister. Isn't she pretty? She called me a couple of weeks ago because I am completely oblivious to local events, at times. Tim and I's favorite comedian, Brian Regan, was going to be in town. She called to tell me that and, here's the kicker, volunteered to babysit! Of course we took her up on it. Tim and I, on the rare occasion we get out, trade sitting services with other couples or pay obscene amounts to neighborhood teens.

We had a great time. We are so used to eating while tag teaming the boys that we both scarfed our dinner and were left with ample time to sit and stare at each other. without being 'campers'. To the lady who sat behind us, "Learn to modulate your voice or at the very least learn to carry on an interesting conversation." We are both compulsive eavesdroppers; probably because we're both too boring to have our own conversation that doesn't involve something coming out of our children. No one, in our vicinity had anything remotely interesting to talk about, so we left.

Brian Regan was playing at the Charleston Performing Arts Center. The show was great, he had a lot of material we hadn't heard and he's great live. As far as the venue I have one rave and one minor concern, both involve the restroom. I was highly impressed, after the show, going to the restroom wasn't a huge ordeal. In fact, there were so many stalls it looked like a synchronized sport. I am not usually impressed by restroom facilities. Everything was very clean, it was nothing like a stadium where women are terrified of actually coming in contact with a surface. Well, everyone except my stepdaughter, who I once caught picking pennies up off the floor at a Charleston Riverdogs game. I had to completely sanitize her before we could let her back in the house.

On to my concern, I measure in at a hair under six feet tall. Last night, I wore heels and felt like an amazon surveying pygmies. Perhaps Charleston is known for its persons of small stature (midgets, dwarves, or various other little people). I've only seen a couple in the area, in my entire life. However, they must have a strong lobbying committee. I washed my hands and looked for the dryers or paper towel dispensers. I completely missed it in my first glance around the room because, and I kid you not, the dispenser was at knee level. Sure, it's a great height, for my two year old; I really think someone had to have messed up the installation. However, according to Tim, it was the same in the men's restroom, go figure.

Oh and to whoever designed the parking lot: I love you, I really love you. This was probably the best designed parking area I've been in. Seriously, we didn't show up obscenely early and managed a great spot. We were out of the parking lot in less than two minutes, absolutely unheard of in my experience.

A Taco Smell run completed our kid free evening. We are obviously not partying people anymore, but that's OK. I can appreciate an evening out, now, without paying for it the next day. If you get the chance to see Brian Regan, go for it, he's so funny, but it's an event you could take your mom to and not cringe with embarassment.

Little Accomplishments

Yesterday I fixed all the hooks (10) for the shades in our Florida room. It makes such a huge difference, not having the cords strewn about to hold the shades up. I couldn't peel the sticky hooks off (the previous owner used them), so I screwed a brass screw into the center of each piece. The parts the cords actually wrapped around had snapped off over the last two years.

I also washed all the windows. Maybe someday we'll actually have furniture in there.

Disturbing

I have been out of the loop. Aidan's sickness and my own mastitis has caused me to not pay attention to the news as of late. Last night, I was finally able to attend a small group meeting. (This is a way the church I attend creates involvement for both learning and volunteer work.) In an off topic discussion another member brought this up:
Poll reveals 40pc of Muslims want sharia law in UK. Being the nerd I am, it piqued my interest.

This morning I've been researching Sharia. Please note the article is flagged to have disputes with accuracy and neutrality. However, I just wanted a basic understanding of what Islamic Law encomapasses.

I do not trust polls; I think it is highly impropable to find an accurate representation of the general populace who are willing to participate in polls. I've been polled a couple of times, but until this past year I had never received a call and no one in my circle of friends has ever brought it up. My two year old is not a good sounding board for political discussion, so I'm actually appreciative of the outlet a poll provides. I believe a large portion of society, present company excluded, can't be bothered with politics. I hear excuses about how dull it is. I just smile and nod while wanting to shake them and explain how politics is so rife with sex and corruption that it is far more interesting than any soap opera drivel. It has ramifications that will affect our lives and the lives of our kids. However, I know better than to attempt a conversion.

I guess my mindless blathering is an attempt at saying: the headline is disturbing, but I personally doubt the accuracy of the data. I find the idea of the implementation of Sharia law something out of Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale. It disturbs me on a deep level, but that is tempered with its unlikely occurence.

What did I just do?

I belong to a mothers group that meets monthly. These meetings are to discuss various aspects of parenting. It's also a great reason to head to the local wateringhole after the "meeting." It's one of the rare occasions I get out of the house alone. I haven't taken advantage of this excuse since the Christmas party and recently received an e-mail from the leader.

Long story somewhat shorter, I just volunteered to put together a presentation on cooking. Anyone who really knows me will understand I'd rather put a fork in my eye than get up in front of a group and speak.

What did I just do?

Hi, how was your day?

Warning: This post contains descriptions of bodily fluids (and none of them are the 'exciting ones.')

As a SAHM (Stay At Home Mom) my days are pretty routine and boring. Mostly I just keep the boys entertained and do all the things I'd like to pay someone else for, but am just too tightwad to ever really give that any thought. I spend a lot of my time on alert, waiting for Sir Thousand Hands to find a new way to try and off himself. Thankfully, as he gets older the monkey inside finds less destructive ways to be entertained.

Then there are days, like yesterday, where my day can go from relatively peaceful to craptastic (Thanks Ivy) in less than ten hellish minutes. The baby was fussy, not for any apparent reason, but if he wasn't in my arms he had to be wiggling around on our bed, or else. I haven't quite figured out what it is about your own infant's screech of rage, but no other sound, in my experience, is quite as capable as climbing inside your spine and tightening every nerve in your body until it is just singing with tension. I swear, that sound could be marketed for use by hostage negotiators, it is an instant blinding headache. So, that being noted, we were on the bed, surrounded by a pillow barricade, that the wigglebutt really just laughs at.

Sometimes, all it takes to start an exhausting chain reaction of events is a simple, "Mama?! Go poop!" You see, STH is completely potty trained. Yes, I'm very proud of him. Anyhow, a case of diarrhea took him a little off guard, but together we still made it to the toilet before any major damage was done. I put Mark on the floor and the screech of rage began, as did the headache. I did the ever popular toilet swish of STH's underwear in the other bathroom, scrubbed my hands, and put the baby back on the bed, where he began to channel a whirling dervish. STH is potty trained, but very impatient. I have yet to figure out how to make it absolutely clear that you finish before dismounting.

So, let's set the scene shall we? Baby Mark is whirling around on the bed and my nerves are sizzling. I'm attempting to monitor STH's progress by where he is in Hop on Pop. Mark makes a play for the edge and I pull him back to the middle. In the split second it takes to perform that manuever, STH calls out "All done, Mama!" and I hear his feet hit the floor. I run in and of course, he had not been completely done before he slid off the toilet booster thingy. I will sum it up with, "ICK." STH assumes the position (down dog, for you yoga fanatics); it is not pretty. A quick glance ensures that Mark is still safe, in the middle of the bed.

Toilet paper isn't going to be even close to effective, in this clean up. Of course, the wipes are in the other bathroom, because STH likes to vary his routine and I keep forgetting to stock up. Praying STH holds his pose, I begin to head to the other bathroom, when I hear the sound that every dog owner knows and fears.

"Vlu-urp. . . VLU-urp"

"Noooooo!" I scream as I head toward the sound and my sixty-six pound basset hound. "Not on the carpet!" He has come into the only carpeted room on this floor. I begin trying to push him off the carpet, in time. Vomiting dogs must be like sleeping children, the inertia seems to triple their body mass. Through serious gymnastics and peril at ignoring the two children, I do manage to get him to the deck before he erupts. As an aside to Wallace, why do you think you need to eat the weeds? I really am trying to clean up the yard, I don't need your help, they are not a doggy buffet, and you are not a cow.

I dash back into my room, where Mark is making a play for the edge. STH is walking on all fours around the bathroom, dirty butt in the air. I make another play for the wipes. As my hands are certainly not even close to sanitary, Mark decides it's time to not be content and to let me know, in no uncertain terms.

I try to reason with him as I clean up STH. "You woke up cranky, Mark, I fed you ten minutes ago. Yes, you did burp, and I changed you, just after that. I've played with you all day. It's your own fault you're crabby." Meanwhile, STH, who has never seen Spiderman as anything other than a character on his underwear cries about how he pooped on Spiderman and Mark refuses to be comforted by my words and returns to the edge of the bed, contemplating his certain demise.

As quickly as possible, the bathroom is sanitized, STH is dressed in clean Spiderman underwear, and Mark is rescued from the edge of the bed. I console Mark and he erupts in tremendous yawns. The little traitor was ready for a nap. It seems his sole purpose in waking up from the previous one was to be a part of the madness. They are already conspiring against me, aren't they?

In the evening, when my husband comes home, he'll inevitably ask, "How was your day?"
"Fine. Yours?"

A Most Excellent Hearing Test

Wait until your child is out of the room. Then, decide a cookie would be the perfect treat. Quietly lift the lid of the jar. If they come screaming into the room, "MAMA! I'm coming! Cookie please!" their hearing is perfect!

I'd say the tubes have been a success.

Spring is here!

Spring is here! It might not be everywhere, but it has certainly arrived, in my corner of the world. I've got the urge to skip; the trees are budding. My neighbor has gorgeous daffodils that tempt Sir Thousand Hands. I am learning how hard it is to teach a two year old that it is OK to pick the dandelions, but the neigbhor's flowers are only for smelling.

STH has a book Worm Smells where the main character, worm, sniffs things and makes such astute comments as "Smells Nice!" That has become a household phrase. If you come in the house and supper is cooking, "Smells nice says worm!" If a nasty diaper is being changed, "Smells bad!"

We are going to try to make it to playgroup, today. I feel like such a yuppie saying that. However, it is so nice to get out of the house and tag team children, rather than being the only responsible one. I believe we are headed to the park. Hopefully, baby Mark cooperates and I can pull out my camera.

Thank God I don't live in Minnesota, anymore.

There are few things

I hate more than being trendy for the sake of being trendy. Could the powers that be PLEASE do away with the term "Baby Bump." I hadn't even had my coffee yet and my brain was accosted with "Britney Back on Bump Watch."

Sometimes I wish I could put a filter on my Internet connection and radio that would eliminate all mention of Hollywood figures. There have been a few times I've looked up favorite actors to make sure I haven't missed any movies. However, I really could not possibly give a rat's ass as to what they do in their spare time. Their lives are not a reflection of my own. They can play idealist all day long; I'm just tired of hearing about it.

While I'm bitching, could we, general we, also stop overusing the word 'issues.' The fake psychobabble makes my ears bleed. You do not have 'issues' with cheese; cheese constipates you and no one cares.

Silence

is not golden when you have a two year old that wants to be read to and a baby who likes to be sung to.


I've lost my voice.

And yes, you mother hens you, I'm gargling, drinking lots of fluids, and trying hot tea with honey.

The Ears of Sir Thousand Hands

I mentioned a while ago that my two year old just wasn't getting better. Yesterday, I think we fixed the problem, at least I hope we have.

My two year old, if he wasn't the world's most angry baby, he was certainly an honorable mention. It didn't matter what we did, he just wasn't happy. He began to calm down when we taught him some sign language, the most effective sign was "help." (right hand grasps the left wrist) When he mastered this, it was like someone flipped a lightswitch and he began to mellow out. The poor kid just hated being trapped in a baby's body and was frustrated. Once he could ask us to help him do the things he wanted he improved.

Over the past year, we had watched him blossom into an amazing kid. His personality changed and as his vocabulary exploded he was on top of the world. The tantrums practically disappeared. Over the past two months I watched this in reverse. I couldn't understand what was happening to my son. His pronunciation became garbled and he began pitching fits, constantly. This was on top of being sick, so at first I chalked it up to illness. When he began to get better and the tantrums just increased, I became more worried.

I would ask acquaintences and would hear, "He speaks so well for a two year old." Well, that may have been true, but he was speaking terribly compared to just a month or so ago. Thankfully, we have a great family doctor. He didn't just chalk my concerns up to paranoia and referred us to an ENT. We saw the ENT within the week and were scheduled for tubes.

Aidan had the surgery, yesterday. He was absolutely miserable coming out of the anesthesia, but once he shook that his old self came back. The doctor told us that there was a large amount of fluid trapped in his ears and it was very thick and they'd had to suction it out; it probably would not have resolved on its own. His hearing had probably suffered greatly with the fluid. The doctor had said we should see immediate improvement. He wasn't kidding.

My little man zoomed all over yesterday. He went with my husband on several errands and behaved better than he has in a long time. He came home and just played his little heart out. The whining disappeared. We had one tantrum while I was preparing dinner, but hey, he's two! He attacked his dinner and slept through the night.

Look our world; Sir Thousand Hands is back.

Apologies to Le Suer

I must confess, I forgot about your peas. Le Suer peas are OK, but they are also not the sneaky ones who slip into my shopping basket. It is the Green Giant and off brand peas that camouflage themselves as green beans.

Speaking of green beans, I do prefer canned over frozen but fresh is best.

Now, on a completely different note, it seems the store manager read my blog. (right) While he didn't quit carrying canned peas, he did finally stock Better Than Bouillon. I resisted the urge to buy a bunch and only purchased two. I think I will purchase one per shopping trip for a while and hope it looks like other people are buying them.

I keep a well stocked pantry and would normally wait for it to be on sale, but I want him to keep carrying the product.

Bibles and Butter Cookies

I took my sons to the grocery store, just the other day. Typically, I try to wait until my husband is home, but somehow Friday had arrived and I was not going to face the evening payday crowd. We went straight from the gym and I shamelessly bribed my two year old with a promise of a cookie. In the 'aisle of junk' I came across an innocent package of butter cookies, a kind I hadn't had in years. We eventually made it home. I sorted, repackaged, and put away the groceries while Sir Thousand Hands had a snack. When I was through I asked him to point and ceremoniously placed two butter cookies on his small finger. They no longer fit on my own.

It only took that first small bite and I was back in the dirt lot of Tall Pines Baptist Church. Seven years old, grubby, and clutching a paper cup of kool-aid. The volunteers all herded the children out to the fenced play yard with the lure of "snack time." Even though I grew up Catholic, Vacation Bible School was the official start to summer. Even at nine in the morning, the heat would be shimmering over the pavement. Eagerly, I'd stand with my sisters and friends on the corner, waiting for Preacher Pye to come around in the deathtrap bus. It had once been painted a bright green and white, but even that was tired by now. It was an old school bus that had been rescued from the junkyard and had seen better days. It was designed to hold sixty, but I'll never know just how many kids were packed on. Most vividly, I remember the struggle to claim the bench seat in the way back. I may not have been one of the cool kids, but I wasn't enough of an outcast to ruin the seat by staking a claim. In my mind it's all a jumble of sandals, knees, and elbows. Kids sitting on laps chattering and singing; we'd often circle the neighborhood several times.

We would unload from the bus and seperate into our classes, set by the grade we had just completed. I still remember the scratchy upholstery and the way the sunlight hit the stained glass of the sanctuary, blessedly air conditioned. I remember singing unfamiliar hymns and being jealous of the kids who were selected to hold the flags for the pledges of allegiance. Even though the service was completely foreign to my Catholic upbringing, the short sermons didn't fail to stir my blood and made me want to be a good missionary serving in a foreign land. The years of cynicism were still dim and distant.

The daily classes often befuddled me, I had never heard of Jesus referred to as the Prince of peas and for the life of me, I couldn't understand why that was a special name for Him. I memorized the books of the Bible and verses, too. It was so different from my Catechism classes that never seemed to actually require a Bible to be opened. To be honest, memorizing the books and verses were only another task to excel at. Each year we made our pine cone bird feeders with peanutbutter and bird seed. I imagine we left quite a mess on that poor old bus.

I have now returned to my roots and live within twenty miles of that small church. When I visit my sister, I smile as I pass. I heard somewhere that Preacher Pye passed away a few years ago. To me, he will never be gone. I will forever remember him driving that old bus. I now understand why the pastor kept circling and picking up stragglers. The pandemonium of kids excited about Bible school was a joyful noise unto the Lord.

The lights keep coming on.

Do you ever have a time where you make connections you never thought of? I'm not sure what's going on, but all of a sudden things have been clicking. Granted, it is nothing profound in the great scheme of things, but all of a sudden things seem a little clearer.

1. I was messing around on the computer, when I realized the music folder we keep our Beatles' tunes in was misspelled, like the actual bug. The light went on: Beat-les.
Ugh. I was actually disgusted with myself for overlooking that one for so long.

2. My husband and I were talking during dinner. Yes, I know, that's positively archaic. We were both raised Catholic/Lutheran and the subject of Lent* came up. I had another epiphany**. I made the assumption that the calendar as we know it today was decided after the papacy was moved to Rome. It makes far more sense to ask believers to fast when food is most scarce, late winter and early spring. I have the feeling, if the forty days of Lent fell during the autumn when food is most plentiful, it would have been much harder to sell the general populace the idea.

3. This one only pertains to me and my younger son. When you are nursing and take up an exercise regime, you must increase the amount of food in your diet. I never gave it any thought and the poor boy was constantly nursing, fussy, and just generally irritable. He'd gone from sleeping through the night, to up every 45 minutes to 1.5 hours. Yesterday, it dawned on me what might be happening. I increased my caloric intake and drank an obscene amount of water. He slept from 7:30pm until 2:00am! Today, I am positively floating on air. I feel like a brand new person.

Are there any recent revelations you'd like to share?

* I might have been raised Catholic, but I'm still pretty ignorant. I also recently learned that Lent used to mean Spring.

**Oh, how I loathe thee, James Joyce^.
^My English I professor was in love with the man. She insisted he was the
greatest writer, of all time. Between the two of them, they nearly
extinguished my great love of reading.