Bullets over Bedhead

Part II in an occasional series

  • Here’s something that you shouldn’t do when you’re home alone at 10 p.m. and you’re easily spooked. You shouldn’t watch a special about the Boston Strangler. Just don’t do it. I think I’ll be sleeping with my eyes propped open until TCBIM gets home.
  • I bought a dress on Friday. It looks fanTAStic on me. Of course, I forgot my camera, so you’ll just have to take my word for it, but it did. But high heels? Ouch. I’d forgotten how much they hurt. even if they were adorable, peep-toed, black satin lovlies.
  • And I got a push-em-up-where-they-belong bra that made me look va-va-voom. It was a men-talking-to-my-cleavage kind of evening. Which was kind of nice, since I have felt like frump girl for a mighty long time.
  • Having more than two drinks after three years of being pregnant/nursing and only having the odd glass of wine every few weeks is a Very Bad Idea. We went to a wedding on Saturday – thus the buying of the dress – and I had several drinks. Sunday was mostly spent lazing around, dozing on the couch.
  • O had an appointment at Joslin today. It went well. Her 14- and 7-day average was 146, which is fantastic. She had a few lows in those two weeks, which the doctor wants me to watch. And we have to be more vigilant about changing her site every two days. We’ve been letting it go for three or four and it’s starting to show in her arms and belly. There is some scarring and she’s had a couple of infected sites.
  • I have to call Minimed tomorrow and get her on the Quicksets. We haven’t tried them in two years – she started off using them and they’d crimp up on her. One time, she was sent into DKA and wound up in the hospital for a few days. It sucked.
  • She’s also gained 9 lbs in three months. This concerns me more than the endo, who seemed to think it was from feeding the insulin. Regardless, something needs to be done about it, before O becomes more than just a little pudgy. I don’t want to harp on her about her weight, but I also don’t want to let her get fat.
  • The parking garage at Joslin still sucks ass.
  • And I was gone for twelve hours today. Twelve. I drove from one end of the state to the other and I am tired. G’night.

A budding gourmand

Boo is not your typical toddler. While having a definite fondness for a good peanut butter and jelly sandwich, she turns her nose up at the usual toddler fair. Hot dogs? Won’t touch them. Chicken nuggets? Uh uh. Grilled cheese? No way.

It was no surprise that she refused to touch the Hamburger Helper I served tonight. (Shut up. It was on sale for $1. Desperation dinner. The chicken I took out of the freezer yesterday was still half-frozen.) I gave hers to the dog. But, you know, she’s right. It’s disgusting. I’m giving mine to the dog, too. Last time I ever make that shit. Edited to add: TCBIM is eating mine. Philistine.

I made some butternut squash enchiladas that Red Stapler had posted on her blog. They were tasty, if a bit mushy. Boo loves them. She’ll eat hummus until it comes out of her ears. Last night, she ate a huge handful of jalapeno and cheese potato chips. Her eyes were watering, but she persisted, taking huge swigs of milk to wash them down.

She likes Grape-Nuts, steel cut oatmeal with cranberries, curried lamb and couscous. She’ll drink seltzer water – not flavoured, just plain old seltzer. She likes prune juice, fer Pete’s sake. Prune juice!??! Blech.

I’m glad she has such an adventurous palate, but it does make it difficult to order off the kid’s menu on the rare times we do take her out to eat.

How To Eat A Peanut Butter And Jelly Sandwich

by Boo, age two

First, hop up and down and tug on your mama’s leg and yell “Butter jelly, butter jelly, butter jelly, mama!” over and over again. She will put you into your high chair. Try to avoid being buckled in because when you’re buckled, you can’t turn the light switch off and on and off and on and off and on. It’s kind of fun to hear Mama yell “Boo! Sit down on your bum and stop that!” If she does buckle you in, you can always bang on the tray until the sandwich arrives.

When Mama puts the sandwich on your plate, take it apart and inspect it to make sure she made it correctly.

Then, give it a lick. Finally, take a bite out of the tip. Do this for each quarter of the sandwich.

After taking bites out of all the corners, scrub the sandwich in your hair. This will make your hair stick up in new and interesting ways. It will also make Mama shriek and yell “No, Boo! I just washed your hair!” Of course, by that time, it will be too late. The jelly will be a sticky mess and the peanut butter will have gunked up good.

Inspect the crusts to make sure they are of equal size.

Mash them all over your high chair tray and tell Mama “I cleanin’, Mama.” Watch her put her hands over her eyes and sigh heavily.

Then rub the rest of the crusts all over your hands, paying particular attention to the bits in between your fingers and getting under each and every fingernail. Listen to Mama sob as she gets a washcloth and paper towels.

I do clean up nicely, though.

If it’s not one thing, it’s your mother.

My mother comes over on Wednesdays, ostensibly to help me for the day with the babies and to visit. Usually, however, these visits entail me having to wait on her hand and foot.

“If you’d make some tea, I’d be happy to drink some.” Sure, I’d love some fresh tea. I’ve only reheated mine four times now.

“There are some bags in the back of my car that you could get.” This while I’m trying to nurse the Bug and trying to stop Boo from squeezing the cat to death/colouring on the walls/eating crayons.

“What can you fix me for lunch?” Half-eaten mac & cheese. Half-eaten peanut butter & jelly. Half-eaten apples and cheese. Are you sensing a half-eaten theme here?

“How about a glass of water?” How about one?

“When are you going to move those boxes/set up Boo’s bed/put up the playpen?” Shut. Up.

“I wish you’d re-arrange your bedroom the way I think it should be.” I’ll get right on that – I mean, really, I have nothing else to do.

“Do you want me to buy you a new dish drainboard? I just hate yours.” Um, NO, mother. I LIKE it and YOU never do dishes. And, hello? MY house. Mine.

It’s driving me crazy. How do I confront her about this, though? I mean, she’s driving an hour out here, once a week. But this prima donna routine is getting old. I am so frazzled with taking care of the babies and O and TCBIM, who is now working TWO jobs, so is really never, ever, ever home, that I cannot add an able-bodied adult to the mix. I just can’t. No amount of “Could you please get it yourself? I’m rather busy right now,” does any good. She just says “I’ll wait.”

Seriously, people, I’m losing my mind.

In other news, I am going to New York City at the end of March and I cannot fucking WAIT! Cannot. Wait. I need a break so badly that it’s not funny. I’m taking O, but leaving the babies home with TCBIM. Hah. HAH! Wait, what’s that I’m feeling? I do believe it’s glee. Yes. Glee. That would about cover it.

Ahhhhh. New York City. How do I love thee?

In the middle of the night….

The Bug cries and I slip out of bed to retrieve her from her bassinet. I quickly get back under the covers with her, happily sliding back into the warmth of the duvet, the comfort of the flannel sheets. Her head snuggles into the crook of my arm as she starts to nurse, the dim glow of the bedside lamp falling on her downy head. She falls into a sleepy rhythm that half-hypnotizes me. Her fingers curl through strands of my hair and her eyes meet mine as we gaze at each other. Her hand reaches up, fingers brushing my cheek, my lips and then go back to my hair. Her nursing rhythm slows and finally stops as her eyelids droop over her sleepy blue eyes. I cuddle her gently, so as not to wake her, my hand softly stroking her fuzzy little head, my heart full of a love so intense that it’s nearly painful, nearly takes my breath away, this final baby of mine. Her thumb stabs at her face, seeking her mouth. Finding it, she falls more deeply to sleep.

Easing out of bed, I lift her up and gently deposit her back in her bassinet. As I place her on the mattress, pulling her blankets up around her shoulders, she lets out a huge burp, smiles in her sleep and starts to snore.

Blog For Choice

Blog for Choice Day - January 22, 2007

Today is Blog For Choice. You can read more about it here.

I have hesitated about putting up this post this all day, just because I’m a little concerned about the reaction I might get. I think I’ll probably moderate comments, or at least disallow anonymous ones. This is a touchy subject.

I had an abortion when I was 18 years old. I was a sophomore in college and completely …insane is too strong a term, but I certainly wasn’t what anyone would consider mentally healthy. I had just ended a three-year, emotionally abusive relationship the summer before going back to college and was in a continuing love/neglect relationship with my father. I was desperate for some affection and when I met D, we just clicked. We were both fucked up and we became immediately inseperable. And then I got pregnant.

In my rational moments, I knew I was incapable of taking care of a baby. I was in school. My mother would kill me. The fact that I had smoked pot and drank like a fish in the 6 or 7 weeks before the penny dropped and I realized I’d missed my period also had something to do with it. But mostly, I just knew I couldn’t handle it. I knew that D couldn’t handle it. Even if we’d had a healthy relationship, instead of this desperately needy one, we were both too immature.

D and I talked about it and both decided we weren’t ready. We weren’t ready to start a family, we weren’t ready to be that committed to each other. We didn’t have the desire to have a baby. Not then. It was not an easy decision to reach. We both cried about it, talked about it endlessly, questioned ourselves and each other to make sure we were making the right decision. In the end, we agreed it would be better to not have a baby.

So I went to the clinic. It’s all sort of a blur. I remember it hurting a bit and that I fainted after, but that’s all I remember of the actual procedure. After was the worst. I had doubts. I had second thoughts. I cried a lot. D and I drifted apart and I quit school and moved back home for a bit. D and I talked on the phone now and again. We both sought counselling, seperately, without telling each other. Eventually, we got back together and stayed together for another two years or so. I don’t regret not having a child with him, or not having a child at that time.

I do think about it sometimes, though. What my life might have been like, had I decided to have a baby. I don’t think it would have been a very good life. I don’t think I would have been a very good mother.

I’m glad I had the choice. It’s not a decision I made lightly, which, I believe, is how it should be. Abortion should not be used as birth control. It should, however, be readily accessible and inexpensive. It should not be opposed because of religious beliefs. If you don’t believe it’s the right thing to do, then don’t have one. But don’t impose your religion on me. I firmly believe that it is a woman’s choice and that the government should stay out of it.

I KNEW I was royalty

Behold, I now have a title.

My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is:
Her Most Serene Highness Lady Julia the Mirthful of Bumpstead under Carpet
Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

You may change your blogroll to reflect my new status. Please let me know yours, so I may address you properly.

Brought to you by….

Someone should gag Bill O’Reilly

It should surprise no one that I don’t like Bill O’Reilly. But the other night, he made a statement that absolutely disgusted me. He claimed that the reason Shawn Hornbeck never ran away from his kidnapper was because “The situation…looks to me to be a lot more fun than what he had under his old parents. He didn’t have to go to school. He could run around and do whatever he wanted.”

I can’t even write coherently, I’m so appalled by that. What? LIKED it? Are you a scared 11 year-old, Bill? Have you ever been kidnapped? Molested as a child? If you never have, then shut the fuck up. I don’t know what gives you the right to say how this kid felt or discuss what he experienced as though you were there.

He owes that boy a huge apology.

Blog For Choice

Blog for Choice Day - January 22, 2007

Suzanne, over at CUSS, brought this to my attention. I think it’s a great idea. If you’d like to participate in Blog For Choice, click on the button and sign yourself up.

Hopefully my stance on this subject surprises no one.

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