Magician Sex

I was at this Night Before New Year's Eve thing with my family last night. It's this really cool event with games, music, crafts, hayrides, and a magician. The magician also happened to be a balloon maker (is there a better name for one who makes balloons? If so, I can't think of it right now), and he was making balloons for the kids. He was really funny too. He'd say things, like, "What's your favorite animal that looks like a poodle?" and, after accidentally popping a balloon, "Do you know how many times these things pop?  ... Just once."

Mr. Magician had a Mr. Magician-type showman persona, which made me wonder what he was like in normal life... you know, when he wasn't being Mr. Magician. What would it be like to hear him talk normal? What would it be like to see him in sweat pants, sitting on a recliner, watching the latest episode of 24?

And then, as my mind often does during times like this, I started to imagine him having sex. I know, I know... this is weird and I shouldn't do this, BUT I CAN'T HELP IT. That is just how my mind works... random thoughts of people who I could never imagine having sex actually HAVING SEX. People like Mr. Larson, my high school shop teacher. People like my parents. People like the cashier at Cub Foods when we're purchasing KY Jelly for ourselves. People like my husband's cousins who are really religious and seem too pure to even know how to have sex. People like Al Roker.

Orgasmic Squash Soup

I made this soup for the first time the other night. I originally had this soup for the first time at Jen's blessingway. When I tasted it, I literally said, "Mmm... This tastes like an orgasm in my mouth." And the ladies who were standing around me said, "Ew... that doesn't sound good." And I'm all, like, "No, I mean, it's as awesome as an orgasm. Oh, never mind. I'll stop talking now."

So, anyway, I didn't take a picture of the soup, so I just grabbed this picture off the internet since basically all squash soups look the same. Everybody in my family loved it as much as I did (and I refrained from making any orgasm comments at the table).

As usual, all of the ingredients should be organic (for obvious reasons). This is a great way to get some  yummy, good-quality fats into your diet (the butter and raw cream), as well as good-quality vegetables.

Here's the recipe:

4 cups butternut squash, peeled and diced
3 cups chicken stock
1 cup apple cider
1 medium apple, peeled and large diced
1 cup chopped carrots
1 medium onion, large diced
1/4 tsp allspice
1/4 tsp nutmeg
1/4 tsp cloves
1/2 tsp crushed red peppers
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp pepper

1/4 cup maple syrup
1/2 stick butter
1 cup raw cream

Place all ingredients (except syrup, butter, and heavy cream) in pressure cooker; secure lid. Set pressure cooker to soup or allow pressure cooker to rise in steam until probe lifts. Timer should be set for 10 minutes. (If you do not have a pressure cooker just cook everything until tender.) When cooking is complete, add syrup, butter, and heavy cream, puree soup with immersion blender or in a standard blender and serve.

Note: That isn't a photo of the soup I made. I just grabbed it off the net since I forgot to take a picture and pretty much all squash soups look the same.

Living a Balanced Life

We got home from our Christmas holiday yesterday. It went pretty much as expected. As I predicted before,we did get a couple of comments about how Ocean is not reading yet (she's only six and I believe in child-led reading), one educational Christmas gift, and one comment about doing elimination communication. And none of it was that big of a deal. The only comment that really annoyed me was when my mom said (of baby Peace), "Where's all her hair? Andrea Rivard's baby has lots of hair." But, I guess that comment wasn't so much annoying, inasmuch as it was just utterly stupid (as in, some babies just don't have hair, Mom!).

The whole week pretty much balanced itself out though, as life always does. I've been reading this book by Dr. John F. Demartini called The Breakthrough Experience where he talks about equilibrium and how at the center of all the positives and negatives in life is balance and love. "Nature won't allow anything but equilibrium. When you embrace the balance and the truth, love surrounds you." So, for everything that happens in life that is negative, there is a positive side to it (and vice versa).

I was thinking about this in relation to our holiday, and it couldn't be more true. Sure, I have to put up with the relatives making asinine comments about my babies hair, but I also don't have to do any cooking for an entire week. It's all balanced. I get to eat a lot of yummy, unhealthy food (seriously, I think I have some sort of holiday eating disorder or something), but then my body feels the effects of it afterwards. I have fun playing board games with my family, but then my sister gets sick and starts passing gas that smells worse than my dead grandma.

See... balance.

Where Are My Freaking Pens?

There isn't a day that goes by in our household where I'm not yelling about where the pens are. See, I'm super-anal about my pens. There should be one by the computer, one by the phone, and one by the calendar.

These pens keep getting moved all the time AND I DON'T KNOW WHY.

Larry Wachowski

I was leafing through a copy of People magazine at the library the other day, and I saw a picture of The Matrix director, Larry Wachowski, dressed up as a woman.

I was very fascinated and excited by this news, so I told Vernon about it right away when he got home. And he's says, "Yeah, I knew that, like, two years ago."

I was floored by this. Not by the fact that Larry Wachowski has been dressing like a woman for years, but by the fact that I DIDN'T KNOW ABOUT IT. I should officially have my KNOWER-OF-ALL-THINGS-POP-CULTURE card revoked. I don't deserve to be a member anymore.

(There was also some more conversation between Vernon and myself where I got upset with him for not telling me this information two years ago so I wouldn't feel so out of the loop now.)

Do You Wanna Bone?

My mom was serving some meat, and she asked Vernon, "Do you want a bone?"

And I say, "Mom, that's disgusting and really none of my business. Keep that kind of talk to yourselves."

Soapbox Sunday - Aspartame

Aspartame is the anti-Christ. Nobody in their right mind should be consuming the stuff and the FDA should not allow it to be put into food and sold in stores. There are more bad reactions from aspartame reported to the FDA than any other food additive combined. There are over 92 side affects associated with aspartame consumption.

So, foods you're going to want to avoid are: DIET SOFT DRINKS (mother), Nutrasweet, puddings, Jell-O, Kool-Aid, breath mints... just check the label, and please, please, please avoid aspartame BECAUSE IT WILL KILL YOU! And it will probably make you FAT in the process as well, so don't think that by drinking DIET Coke that you are choosing the healthy alternative, by any means.

My mom is slowing killing herself with her Diet Coke habit, and she doesn't even care. I show her all the research, and, of course she already knows about it, because everybody KNOWS by now that aspartame is the anti-Christ, but SHE DOESN'T CARE! She loves her Diet Coke, because Diet Coke is a drug and she is addicted to it.

(Oh, and by the way, feel free to substitued the words... splenda, sucralose, saccharin, or acesulfame for aspartame and apply the same meaning to them all. And the meaning is: THEY ALL SUCK!)

Awkward Family Moments

We spent this morning with my father and his new wife (I guess you could call her my "stepmother", but I certainly wouldn't) celebrating our "Christmas" with them. This is always kind of awkward, because, 1) My father is kind of awkward, 2) Our family dynamic is kind of awkward, and, 3) The fact that he has married another woman (let's call her "Joan", because that is her name) is kind of awkward.

For one thing, Joan doesn't sit down with us to eat. She does all the cooking and all the serving of food and SHE DOESN'T SIT DOWN TO EAT. As a matter of fact, she doesn't eat at all. In all the years that I've known her, I've never seen her consume more than a diet coke and a chicken breast.

And then there are the pictures of Joan and my dad up around their house... pictures of them on vacation, pictures of them in front of Bubba Gump Shrimp... and it's all just kind of, weird. Like, it's weird that my dad was once married to my mom, but now he's married to Joan and they are going to Bubba Gump Shrimp and taking pictures by it.

We're eating brunch, and none of us are really talking to each other, and I start hearing the clinking of our forks on our plates. Clink. Clink. Clink. And I start thinking that this is the funniest thing in the world and I almost burst out laughing right then and there, but instead I search for something to make conversation about and I end up asking my niece about her facebook addiction.

And it's really not that bad, really. And I enjoy my dad and my family.

It's just different. That's all.

My Baby's Perineum

I was looking at Baby Peace's vagina the other day, and looking at that precious area between her vagina and "that other hole", and I thought, "Oh, what can I do to make sure the maternity care system in this country is better by the time Peace is old enough to have babies of her own so she won't be subjected to any unwanted / unnecessary episiotomies." (I had just read about somebody's unwanted episiotomy, which is why I was thinking about this in the first place.)

But then the thought came to my mind that there is a maternity care system in this country that is better right now... they're called HOMEBIRTH MIDWIVES. There is probably less than a 1% chance that any daughter of mine will give birth in a hospital, so I can rest assured that my little baby's perineum will be treated with care and respect.

Photo Friday - Peace in Winter

How is it possible to not love another human being who looks at me like this?

Christmas Food

I know I can be sarcastic at times (okay, basically ALL of the time), but I am not being sarcastic when I say this: I've eaten 4-5 times more than I normally do, every day, while on holiday. That is an amazing amount of food, but that is how I roll nonetheless.

Stinky Pajamas

We are oscillating between two homes over the Christmas holiday week: my mother's and my in-laws. The problem is, my mother keeps her thermostat set to 60 degrees (I think she's in menopause) and my in-laws has theirs set to 73 degrees. (Sidenote: We keep ours set to 67 degrees.)

So, I didn't know what pajamas to pack. Should I pack my warm, flannel pajamas or my short-sleeved, cotton ones? I ended up going with my flannels, because those were the ones that I ended up washing ahead of time. The thing is, I washed them in the same load as my husband's stinky workout clothes, and now they are stinky as well. Really stinky. I don't think our environmentally friendly laundry detergent is cutting it for my husband's unenvironmentally friendly workout clothes. So, now I'm stuck here, at my in-law's 73 degree oasis, in my stinky flannel pajamas.

I should have packed the cool jammies. I don't feel at all uncomfortable re-adjusting my mom's thermostat, whereas I would feel very much like I prick if I were to do it here.

On Hugs and Roseanne

Growing up, I hugged and kissed my mother until I was about eight years old. Then, I decided that I didn't want to anymore, and that was that. We were never the warm and touchy family that one reads about in greeting cards. We were more the sarcastic, impersonal family that one sees on TV shows like Roseanne.

When I was 17, I started dating Vernon. We went to prom together and after the grand march, when all the parents were taking pictures and stuff like that, his mom comes and GIVES HIM A KISS ON THE MOUTH. And, I was, like, Oh, my gosh, he just kissed his mom on the mouth. And later, on a different occasion, I was at his house for something and before we left HIS DAD GAVE HIM A KISS ON THE MOUTH. And, I was, like, Oh, my gosh, his dad just gave him a kiss on the mouth.

I was clearly not able to comprehend that kind of relationship with one's parents, coming from my own Roseanne-style upbringing.

Well, now, some 24 years after I stopped accepting hugs and kisses from my mother, she has started TO GIVE ME HUGS. I don't know what to think about this. I mean, sure, it's a nice idea in theory... but I'm just really not that into it. I am not a hugger. I am not a toucher. (On a side note: I had once toyed with the idea of becoming a birth doula, but given my complete inability to touch people, I figured that was probably not a very good career choice.) And I'm okay with that! Why go against something that has worked so well for our family for all these years? But, I love my mother very much, and I will give her hugs if that is what she wants.

Now, if my dad ever started giving me hugs... ugh. That's another story. I can't even begin to think about the awkwardness.

Next Time

My mom found out about the outgoing message on her machine before anyone even called in. Oh, well. Next time.

My Mom's Answering Machine

We survived the car ride to my mom's in Moorhead, Minnesota. It went as good as could be expected. No more. No less.

I always change my mom's outgoing message on her answering machine when I'm at her place, just to mess with her. This is what I recorded today: "Hello, this is Anita Anderson. Please leave a message. I love you. You're my best friend." Sure, it wasn't my most creative material, but I did use a voice that made her sound like a moron.

Or maybe it just made me sound like a moron.

Wearing the Same Clothes

So, we're heading up north for the holidays, right? Well, everytime we go anywhere overnight, my husband wants to pack basically every piece of clothing that we own. And this is for a family (especially Ezra) who wears the same things over and over and over and over and over and over again. I am seriously cycling through only two pairs of pants right now (and one of them has holes in the knees), Ezra has been wearing the same pair of overalls for three months, I don't change baby Peace out of her outfit until she either spits up on it or pee leaks through to it (which is probably every 2-3 days), and even Ocean tends to have her favorite clothes which she wears over and over again.

We don't go through a lot of clothes, therefore, we don't need to pack a lot of clothes.

But my husband will want to pack an outfit for every day, because that is who he is, so he'll do that for himself and the kids (even though they don't need it). And I will be in charge of packing for myself, so I will inevitably underpack, because that is who I am.

Going North for Christmas

We're going to go up north for Christmas, to the parents. I'm kind of looking forward to this because I somehow have it in my mind that my life will be easier while on vacation. I won't have to cook. I won't have to clean. I'll have grandparents around to watch my kids. I'll have cousins around to play with my kids. We'll get to play board games at night (I LOVE board games).

But then I think about all the other times we've gone to the parents, and how crazy and dysfunctional it can get. First of all, the car ride is long (and it may or may not be unbearable with the baby-who-does-not-like-the-car, but I think it will be okay because the baby-who-does-not-like-the-car seems to kind of like the car in the morning, so that's when we're planning on driving). Second of all, naptimes and bedtimes will get all thrown off, and our usual stellar eating habits will be thrown all asunder. Stuff like that.

And the worst part is, and I'm just bracing myself for it, all the "little" comments about our parenting style that we're certain to get from our family. I can just hear them now:

• "Why don't you have your kids in school?" 
• "Are you sure she's tired? Look, she wants to play. Let her stay up later!" (Yes, mom, believe it or not, I do know when my baby is tired, and do you realize that if we let her stay up now that we're going to have hell to pay in about 15 minutes? Yeah, I didn't think so.)
• "Shouldn't Ocean be reading by now? Don't you worry that she'll be left behind?" (Which I'm sure will be followed by a Christmas gift that has something to do with learning how to read.)

Along with various other things (I'm sure we'll get at least something about elimination communication) that I'm sure I can post about when I get back. 

But it will all balance itself out because of all the good stuff, like not cooking and not cleaning, right? Right? Right?

Right?

Messy Hair and Dirty Overalls

I like to give my daughter freedom and autonomy to choose her own path in life, in most everything she does. Sure, I draw the line when she, like, has to wear a seat belt or something. But for the most part, she is able to make the majority of the decisions in her life. One of the decisions she chooses to make is to not brush her hair most days, and this kind of bothers me sometimes because it looks like there is a big, old rat's nest on the back of her head.

But, I do love that she has the freedom to make her own choices about the little things like hair brushing, and I get to pick my battles on the bigger things (like always wearing a seat belt, and not letting her watch TV).

My son likes to assert his autonomy by wearing the same pair of pants (they're overalls actually), over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again. But, whatever. If hair brushing and dirty overalls are the biggest problems I have, we're probably doing alright... it just might make us look a little white trash, is all.

Soapbox Sunday - Fats

Fats are not bad. Fats are not bad. Fats are not bad. Fats are not bad.

Up until four years ago, I avoided fats like the plague (thanks to all that low-fat, Susan Powter-infomercial crap that had been running my brain for years). Seriously... I would not eat fat on anything. Ever. Then, I wised up and read a couple of facts.

Here's the thing: Bad fats are bad, but good fats are good. The fats that you should be eating are: butter (preferably raw), olive oil, coconut oil (especially coconut oil... it's one of the best fats out there), cream (preferably raw), cod liver oil. The fats that you should continue to avoid like the plague are: margarine (because margarine is basically plastic), shortening, trans fats, vegetable oil, canola oil, corn oil, and hydrogenated and partially-hydrogenated oils.

And it's important to get a lot of good fats into our diet. They are essential to hormone production, cancer prevention, metabolism regulation, fat-burning, brain development, and weight loss. If you are having any sort of hormonal problem, you should probably up your fat intake. If you want to burn fat, you should probably up your fat intake. If you want to grow healthy children, you should probably up their fat intake.

But, Allison, won't fats make me fat? No. Fats don't make you fat. Processed foods (and all of their various chemicals), sugar... those are the things that are making people fat. I'm serious. I know all of this may sound like complete malarkey (ah, finally a time I can comfortably use the word "malarkey"), and I know that I wouldn't believe it myself if I was 20-year-old Allison reading this, but it's all true. Do the research. Stop believing what THE MAN is feeding you.

Oh, and, P.S. All of these good fats are really, really yummy. Give yourself permission to eat them once again. It's worth it, in more ways than for your tastebuds.

Photo Friday - Ezra at the Dinner Table

I love my son Ezra because he is so funny.

Big Love

It's been three years since Big Love first premeired on HBO, and I've finally started watching it. I've been hacking it off the internet for the past eight days now, and I've gotten through the first nine episodes of Season One.

Wow. What a show. The character development is amazing. Everything about it is just so incredibly well done.

In case you're not in the know, Big Love is that show about polygamists in Utah. Interesting concept, right? Well, it makes polygamy seem kind cool and not any more dysfunctional than a traditional family (at least the modern polygamists, not the ones at the compound... they crazy). They all just seem so happy with their family situation that consists of three wives, one husband, and seven children between them.

Who are we to judge whether that is right or wrong? I mean, Kevin Federline is the father of several kids with different mothers, and nobody cares about that. I repeat: NOBODY CARES ABOUT KEVIN FEDERLINE. Why should our society be so quick to judge the lives of polygamists (not the ones that are marrying the 14-year-old girls, but, you know, the "normal" ones), if we're not judging the sex life of K-Fed? Of course, polygamy is not a lifestyle that I would choose, but I would also choose not to have sex with Kevin Federline.

Speaking of sex, they sure do have a lot of sex on this show. I think Bill Paxton's naked butt has made an appearance in at least eight of the nine episodes that I've seen. He just really, genuinely loves all of his wives, and they really, genuinely want to have sex with him. Seeing them have that much sex makes me want to have sex more with my husband. (On a sidenote: I wonder if I ever watched clown porn if that would make me want to have sex with clowns?)

The only thing about the show that seems a little bit off is the characterization of the teenage boys in the show. I mean, do teenage boys really talk about boners THAT much (if so, I would fit right in, hardee, har, har)? There was one scene where a teenaged boy was pretending to steer the car with his hard-on (and he was in the car with a bunch of other boys). I don't get it. Unless that's how kids now-a-days are acting. It's been awhile since I've been a teenager, and it's been even longer since I've been a teenage boy, so I don't really know.

What's That Smell?

Vernon came home from his bowling thing last night while I was cuddled up in bed with Peace in the crook of my arm. Vernon bent down toward Peace like he was going to kiss her on the head, but instead of kissing her, he smelled her.

"What was that?" I asked. "Did you just smell her?"

"Yeah, I like to do that," he said.

Now, this should come as no surprise that he likes to smell a baby's head, considering that 82.7% of the adult population likes the smell of a baby's head... but this is the first time that I realized that HE LIKES TO SMELL A BABY'S HEAD! How could I have not known this before?

What About Vernon?

I was thinking some more today about the birth of Peace (she is five months old today). I really wish I would have had Vernon more involved in the birth. I want to be the type of birther who likes to be touched, caressed, talked to, and in connection with her husband during labor. But, since I knew that I wasn't, I set myself up to be alone and unwatched, like a mother cat hiding behind the couch to have her kittens.

That's what I wanted... I didn't want to have anyone (my husband, as well as any other birth attendant, which is why I chose to do it unassisted) there looking at me / talking to me / touching me. That is just the type of birther that I am.

So, during my labor with Peace, Vernon remained in the other room while I labored in our bedroom. I had him come check on me periodically (once to watch me poop to make sure it wasn't the baby, and once to watch me throw up), but that was about it. I liked my privacy. But looking back on it now, I would really like to remember the birth more as something that we did together (instead of being separated by, you know, a hallway). I want there to be memories of us holding each other during the labor, supporting one another... loving one another. I'm sad that we don't have that.

But it was a good birth, and there are plenty of good memories to be had. I loved that it was just us (and our other two kids) there for it. I loved that Vernon got to catch Peace when she was born (the first of our kids that he was in a good position to do so). I loved all the candles, the music, the space, the tub.

I don't know if it is weird or not that I am still processing the birth after all these months. I've spent a lot of time processing the birth... and it was a wonderful, completely natural, non-traumatic birth.

It makes me wonder how woman are able to process births that are any less than that.

Personalized T-Shirts for Christmas

For the past four Christmases, I have given my husband a personalized t-shirt with an obscure and/or embarrassing saying on it:

1. Steve Guttenberg
2. I Love Kenny Rogers
3. Bea Arthur Was Here
4. If Only I Were Tom Poston

It has kind of become a yearly tradition, but I don't think I'm going to do it this year. 1) I'm probably the only one in the universe who thinks these t-shirts are funny; and, 2) My husband doesn't seem to be wearing them so much anymore. I looked in his closet and saw that he only has the Guttenberg and Tom Poston t-shirts remaining... and most people don't even know who Tom Poston is in the first place.

So, I think I will retire this tradition that only succeeded in amusing myself, and try to come up with a new tradition. Personalized boxers maybe?

The Name Peace

So, five months ago, I named my new baby Peace, right? Well, I always felt kind of dumb when I was out and about with her and she wasn't ACTING very peaceful. And I felt especially dumb when SOMEBODY WOULD SAY, "Peace doesn't seem very peaceful today." I tried not to let it get to me too much though, because I just loved the name so much (regardless of the way she acted).

But now, she IS peaceful most of the time. And it is lovely. And it is still lovely even when she is not peaceful.

Happy Birthday Vernon!

It's my husband's birthday today. I made this video for him.

Unschooling and Asheville

There was a time in the recent past (during the conglomeration of months that were known to the world as July, August, September, October, and November, but were known to me as WHAT-THE-HECK-DID-I-JUST-GO-THROUGH) where I felt so overwhelmed with having two kids PLUS a new baby that I considered sending the older ones to school. I couldn't just send them to any ordinary school, of course. It had to be a Sudbury School. (A Sudbury School is basically the closest thing to unschooling within a school-like setting.)

I started researching the few towns that had a Sudbury school, so that, two years from now, when Vern is opening up his chiropractic practice, we could consider moving there. That's right, people, I'm thinking up this scenario for something that would take place TWO YEARS FROM NOW.

One of the towns that had a Sudbury school was Asheville, North Carolina. I told this to Vernon because we had actually talked about moving to Asheville previously. This was a mistake, because it got him all atwitter about moving to Asheville again, when what I really want to do is move is Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Vernon wants to live somewhere that isn't cold though. Thus, he gets a hard-on every time I mention Asheville.

But now, I'm in a better place emotionally than I was during WHAT-THE-HECK-DID-I-JUST-GO-THROUGH, a time when I could hardly hold two neurons together long enough to form a cohesive thought (or however it is that one makes thoughts). So, now, I'm okay with not having my kids in school and I really want to move to Portsmouth again. (Plus, did I mention that this is TWO YEARS FROM NOW?)

So, I guess we'll just wait and see how this all plays out.

Changing Into Pajamas

Can someone please tell me why I came home and immediately got into my pajamas? Does leaving the house and 8:15 am and getting back at 1:15 pm all of a sudden constitute a day now?

Apparently.

I Finally Love My Baby!

I hope this doesn't come across as disturbing or make me seem like an uncaring mother, but I think that, after almost five months, I'm finally starting to really fall in love with my baby Peace.

It's not like I didn't LOVE her right away. Of course I did. But, and for whatever reason, there was always some sort of subtle disconnect there. Where this disconnect came from, I have no idea, because I certainly did everything in my power to prevent it: natural birth, continuous contact, the babymoon of all babymoons, co-sleeping, breastfeeding... you get the idea. But yet, there it was, some sort of small disconnect that I couldn't explain.

Maybe it was because I was infinitely distracted by the other goings-ons in my life. Seriously, I could hardly even hold two neurons together to form a thought without feeling overwhelmed (or however it is that one forms thoughts). Having a baby again was just so... hard.

Or maybe it was because I felt like I could never figure her out.

Or maybe it was because I went slightly crazy around month three and couldn't remember how to smile for awhile.

I don't know. Maybe it's none of these things.

Peace has always cried more than my other kids did. Ocean and Ezra actually set the bar pretty high in terms of NOT crying... they only cried for a total of, maybe, 2 minutes a day. All it took was a boob in their mouth to make them feel better, and all was right with the world once again. With Peace, she cried, and I would go right for the boob, but that would not work. I was a one-trick pony who needed to figure out a new trick. So I swaddled. I bounced. I did whatever else. She ended up crying for, maybe, 10-15 minutes total throughout the day. (That's not counting car rides though, because that's another story altogether.) So, she took a lot more effort, and she required me not to be lazy (which was yet another thing that I wasn't used to).

I had to get used to the fact that, hey, this baby needs to sleep during the day and I need to be the one making sure that she gets naps instead of traipsing about to wherever it is that I need to go. I had to get used to the fact that she didn't like to be in the car, especially at night, and that I would have to forgo any nighttime excursions for while. I had to get used to a lot of things again... a lot of the normal, taking-care-of-a-baby type things that my brain had forgotten about in the 3-1/2 plus years since I had Ezra.

And I did.

So, now it's kind of hard for me to even remember those feelings because, for the past week or two, I have felt so utterly and completely IN LOVE with her... it's wonderful. When she nurses, she holds her head perfectly still and scans my face with her eyes, back and forth, back and forth, like she's looking for something in me that she's never seen before. When I take her to bed with me, I snuggle her in the crook of my arm and hold her like a teddy bear, with my chin on top of her head. And, oh, the way I am able to lift her, and hold her, and carry her... it is an effortless flow now, and it is like she is an extension of myself. I love it.

Time is standing still now, whereas, before, it was just passing me by. I feel slightly guilty for the fact that the past five months went by in such a blur. I wish I could remember them more. I wish I had taken more pictures. I wish I had been less neurotic. I wish I had savored the moments more. I miss them already.

Sex Tonight?

I said to Vernon, "I think we should have sex tonight." But then I thought about it a little bit and said, "No, nevermind. Your birthday is coming up. I'll save it until then."

Soapbox Sunday - Breast Infections

So, you have a breast infection. Not to fear. The single best remedy is some Raw Apple Cider Vinegar. Seriously. If you feel yourself coming down with a breast infection or mastitis, take shots of Raw Apple Cider Vinegar thoughout the day and it should clear up on its own pretty quickly.

Please, please try this BEFORE going to the clinic to get antibiotics. If you start taking antibiotics, it will wreak havoc not only on your gut, but on the gut of your little (or big) nursing baby (or toddler) as well. (Antibiotics will wipe out ALL of the bacteria in your system, including all the good stuff.) If, God forbid, you do take the antibiotics, PLEASE get yourself a really good probiotic and start drinking mass quantities of good-quality kefir (this will help re-establish the good bacteria in your gut).

And, of course, with a breast infection (as I'm sure you've read before), continue to nurse frequently on the affected breast, use warm compresses, etc. You've got to do everything you can to avoid being on antibiotics, and taking the Raw Apple Cider Vinegar should definitely help.

Now, where can you get this Raw Apple Cider Vinegar, you  may ask? Check your local food co-op, Trader Joe's or Whole Foods. Check the organic section of your local grocery store (if it has one). And try to have the stuff on hand just so it will be there in case you need it.

It would make a lovely gift at a baby shower.

Matt Saracen

There was this amazing scene in Friday Night Lights this week. (Occasionally, I will get struck by the awesome-ness of a certain scene in a movie or television show, as I've done before, and the scene will resonate with me for weeks / years to come... this was one of those times).

In the scene, Matt Saracen was looking through the window of the house that he shared with his mom and grandma, and they were quietly arguing over whether they should get a new television set. Awesome, right?

Okay. Maybe you had to be there. But it was so poignant because he was thinking of leaving town and leaving them, and the scene just showed how ready he was to do that, and how trivial his life in Dillon had become.

And then, at the end of the show, he left town and that made me very, very sad because I've had a crush on Matt Saracen since the first episode. He reminds me of Vernon. And Matt's relationship with the coach's daughter reminds me of my high school relationship with Vernon. Their relationship brought me back to my old courting days with Vernon, back when we were both weird little teenagers with nothing better to do than to talk about Margaret Cho's new TV show, All-American Girl. Oh, them were the days. Them were the days.

Losing Myself

Every time after I have a kid, I lose a little bit of myself. I wonder who I am and who it is that I'm supposed to become.

After having baby Peace five months ago, I felt like I was smacked in the face with a loss of freedom / loss of self. I have had TWO KIDS BEFORE, so I really should have remembered this. Yet, somehow, in the infinite span of time that was fours years since my last was born, I had forgotten all about that part of the equation.

See, having a baby makes me a different person than who I was before. It's confusing, especially in the beginning, and I'm often left wondering where my life as a mother ends and my life as a person begins. But, it's also good, because, after a year or so, I begin to figure things out and I become a version of myself that's probably slightly better than who I was before. After having Ocean, I went on to become a conscientious parent and a photographer. After having Ezra, I went on to become a childbirth educator and health nut. Who am I going to be this time? A blogger? (That does seems incredibly more lame than any of the things that I've been before, but I kind of like it.)

So, that leaves me with where I am now... starting this blog. (Granted, I've started a blog before, but I never really updated it regularly.) I'm going to do this, hopefully daily, in an effort to connect with myself because I don't want to lose sight of who I am again.

Wish me luck.

The Birth Story of Peace

It all started around 10:30 am on Thursday, July 16, 2009. I wet my underpants, just a wee little bit. Looking back on it now (and the fact that my water burst out of me only about 5 minutes before the baby was born), I’m pretty sure it was just urine leaking. But, at the time, I thought, “Hmmm… I wonder if something is happening here.” This was five days before I would be at 40 weeks, so it seemed a little early, but still, I wondered.

Hours past, then I started experiencing some mild, mild surges. I wasn’t sure if they were just more Braxton-Hicks or the start of something more. Vern left at 1:45 pm to go screen from some chiropractor at an event over an hour’s drive away.

From around 2:30 pm, they seemed to get stronger and more regular. They were really short little things though (no more than 20-30 seconds, which is how it starts with all my labors), but they did seem to be coming closer together.

I was planning on making sloppy joes for supper since we had a bunch of torn up bread in the fridge (courtesy of my son) and I wanted some way to use that up. But then I started thinking that if I was indeed in labor, I didn’t want to be smelling that in the house later and I especially didn’t want to be throwing that up later as well.

So I took the kids to the local co-op and we bought some packaged cereal for supper. The two mile drive to the co-op was uncomfortable, as was the walk through the co-op because by this time I needed to somewhat stop and concentrate on each of the mini-surges.

After we ate, I elected to call Vernon and tell him to come home so he could help get the kids to bed. But by the time he got home, everything had pretty much stopped and I felt bad for dragging him away from his thing early (although he was perfectly fine with it).

So, then, Vernon got the kids to bed while I tinkered around on the internet. I went to www.contractionmaster.com (a site that times contractions for you) and entered in a couple of my pittering little things and they were around 15 seconds long now and 15 minutes apart.

After Vern got the kids to sleep, we downloaded the movie BRUNO off the internet. It was a very weird, raunchy movie, and it is unfortunate that it has gone on to become a footnote in the history of what we did on the night that our third child was born. I should just cross this part out and say we were watching CITIZEN KANE instead. Yes, that’s it. We were watching CITIZEN KANE.

By the end of the movie (10:30 pm), nothing much had been happening for well over four hours. I was having some very mucous-y vaginal discharge and some of it was tinged the very faintest shade of pink.
We went to bed, but then I never fell asleep and was up around 11:30 pm and started timing some fairly regular surges once again – averaging around 30 seconds long and 10 minutes apart.

Tried to go to sleep again at 12:15 am, but got up at 1:15 am and started timing some more surges (apparently I get a real hard-on from the act of timing surges). They were now between 30-40 seconds long and about 7 minutes apart. Vern stayed in bed, fast asleep and I started filling up the birth tub at around 1:30 am. At this point, I was hungry, so I ate some more cereal. I figured I must not have been too far along if I still wanted to eat, but I wanted to start filling the tub up anyway because I thought that it might take a long time to fill. I also made some Shepard’s Purse tea to have on hand for after the birth.

At 2:00 am, I woke Vernon up so we could start setting up our birth place. By this time, surges were coming 2-3 minutes apart and lasting for 20-30 seconds. We lit candles, keyed up our birth song on repeat (Look At Me, a surprisingly soft and meaningful hidden track off of Sum 41’s 2007 album Underclass Hero), lit incense, blessed the room with a sage stick… and continued filling the tub.

At one point, I kind of felt like I needed to poop. A voice in the back of my head was saying, “If it feels like you have to poop, it is probably your baby.” (Because having a baby feels like having to poop.) So, I had Vern come to the bathroom with me and check to make sure that it was actually poop because I didn’t want to accidentally poop my baby into the toilet. I didn’t really think I felt that far along yet, but then I thought of all those women who have given birth on their toilets because of just such an occasion, and I hoped, “Oh, maybe this will be just that easy.” (Not the case).

Vernon watches for a moment and says, “Hmm… so that’s what poop looks like when it’s coming out. That’s weird.”

Ah, yes, the intimacies of birth. It gets better every time.

So, anyway, it turns out that sometimes when it feels like poop, it really is just poop.

At 2:30 am, I stopped timing contractions and got in the tub. I wanted to labor by myself, so Vernon took a baby monitor into the other room so he could hear me if I needed anything. I went back and forth from being in the tub to being out of the tub because I was doing surprisingly well at managing the surges in both locations (plus, I would get too hot from being in the tub after awhile anyway, and would feel like getting out).

At around 3:30 am, things got tough. I was not enjoying myself so much anymore. It was at this point that I abandoned the idea of wearing my hair down and looking like a beautiful birth goddess and instead said, “Screw it,” and tied it back in a ponytail.

At 4:40 am, I threw up. I’m glad it wasn’t sloppy joes. I called Vernon into the room, not so much so he could do anything, but just so he could stand witness to the fact that I was throwing up. After I was done, I said, “You can go now.”

After that, it got really, really tough. I remember sitting there in the midst of an excruciating contraction thinking about how I’m never going to do this again. Three kids are enough. And I started thinking about all the births I have witnessed (in person as a birth photographer, or at Birth Video Nights with friends) and every single one of the women seem to handle birth with more grace and dignity that I will ever have. This is a shame because birth is something that I want to be good at more than anything. It’s weird that I’m such a natural childbirth nut when natural childbirth has kicked my butt time and time again.

This birth was not turning out to be the beautiful, spiritual experience that I had envisioned, and that I tried so hard to achieve (with affirmations, good nutrition, visualizations, relaxation, exercise, meditation). I really thought that it was going to be different this time around. But I never reached that ethereal state of labor existence that I so desired – that oneness with the universe, creation and the miracle of life. Instead, I was stuck in the harsh reality of normal existence, which happened to be very, very sucky at the moment.

I was anxious to see if the baby was anywhere close to being out yet, so I did something I never thought I would do in a million years: I stuck my fingers in my vagina to feel for a head. Anyone who knows me really well knows that I get the heebie-jeebies at the idea of having anything put inside my vagina (like tampons, gloved hands… and anything featured in the movie BRUNO). The only thing I do like put into my vagina, is, well, how I got in this position in the first place.

But desperate times called for desperate measures. There was no head and it turns out that the inside of me feels soft, weird, and kind of like what I’d imagine the inside of a pink octopus to feel like.
My legs were starting to get tired so I just kind of writhed around in the tub holding onto the edge and kicking my legs out behind me.

Then, I had the hugest contraction in the history of the world and I called for Vernon. Again, there was nothing I wanted him to do except lie witness to the fact that this contraction was indeed going to tear my body in two, and I thought he should be here to see it. Then, I started calling out to my mommy, to God, and to the souls of all women everywhere… to help me.

The plan had originally been to wake our kids up when the baby was about to be born and to turn the video camera on. But as Vern was standing there, I said, “DO NOT MOVE. DO NOT GO GET THE KIDS. DO NOT TURN ON THE CAMERA. JUST STAY WHERE YOU ARE.” I no longer wanted the kids to be there or to have it recorded because I didn’t want anyone else to see me in this agony. Only Vernon.

But it turned out that my gigantic roar through that previous monster contraction woke the kids up anyway. So they came into the room literally within seconds after I told Vern not to go get them. They settled on the bed to watch, just as we had talked about earlier. It was at this point that I finally started to get pushy. I quickly abandoned my plans to “breathe the baby down” because I just wanted to get it out of me. I felt like there was nothing else I could do to handle this internal force that was pummeling through me like an 80 ton truck then to go right along and push with it.

One push, and my aforementioned bags of waters gushed out with a burst. At first I thought (and hoped) that it was the baby flying out of me, but I quickly realized that I still had more work to do. Another push, and it felt like she slid right down my tailbone and rammed her head hard into my bottom. It felt like she was right on top of my butthole and I was thinking, “Find the right hole, baby! Find the right hole!”

I am squatting while leaning back on my hands. It feels like I’m playing a weird game of water Twister or something. I’m not in a position to catch my baby, so I tell Vern that he is going to have to do it (which is something he undoubtedly figured out on his own anyway, given how I was positioned).
Next contraction and the head is out. I feel it and tell Vernon to get ready. My eyes are closed throughout all this, and apparently Vern quickly switches the video camera on and then comes back and cups his hands around the baby’s head. He also had a flashlight, which I didn’t realize, which he gave to our daughter to hold.

One more contractions and the baby is out. Vernon swoops her into my arms, easily and effortlessly, like he has done this a million times before (which he hasn’t… this is the first of our babies that he has caught).

It is 5:22 am on Friday, July 17, 2009.

My first thought upon giving birth to this wonderful new human being is not, “Oh, you’re so beautiful.” It’s not, “Welcome to the world, baby.” No, none of that crap. Instead, my very first thought is, “I am so freaking glad that is over.”

After watching the video footage of it later (actually, I should call it the “audio” footage, given the fact that the lighting in our birth space was so low, that the camera didn’t pick up anything except random spots where the flashlight hit), I must have recovered pretty quickly because I was soon proclaiming all sorts of niceties: “I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.” “Look at this beautiful baby, you guys. Look at this beautiful baby.” And “We did it.”

Apparently I’ve forgotten everything I’ve known about how to hold a baby, because she was all slippery and wiggly and baby-like and hard to hold onto and stuff. I would try to keep her somewhat under the water so she didn’t get cold, but then I’d forget what I was doing and would bring her up, and then I’d remember, and put her body back under again.

I was saying to Vernon afterward about how I thought she looked like my dad. “You say that about all our kids. They don’t,” he says.

“Maybe it’s the fact he has such a round, baby-like head for a grown man that confuses me.”

We eventually get out of the tub and call our mini-support team. The second best thing I did with this birth (the first being giving birth at home with only my immediate family around me)… the second best thing I did was to have two of my friends come over afterward. My chiropractor friend Carrie was there to give my baby her first adjustment. And my vagina/placenta friend Sarah was there to look at my vagina and placenta.

When they first got here it was about 6:30 am and the placenta still hadn’t come out yet, so we all kind of sat around twiddling our thumbs waiting for it. Finally, after another hour (which was now a full 2 hours after the birth), it made its arrival.

Then, Sarah checked my va-jay-jay for tears. She said she would need a flashlight and a mirror. And I’m thinking, “Please don’t make me look at my vagina. Please don’t make me look at my vagina.” And meanwhile, Carrie is standing back there too, looking at my vagina, and she’s shaking her head, like, “Nah, you don’t want to see this.” So I said, “I think we can probably skip the mirror, Sarah.”

I end up having another freaking second-degree tear and lots of swelling.

After that, baby and I get adjusted, the placenta is checked, and they are on their way. I can’t even begin to describe how important it was to have them there afterward. It was so nice to have them there to ask how I was doing, to reassure me that the amount of blood that I lost was completely normal (and maybe even less than average), to clean me up afterwards, to wipe the blood off my legs, etc. Everybody needs their own personal vagina girl and chiropractor around for after their births, if you ask me.

A couple hours after the birth, Vern was standing around looking at the mess, and he says, “So this is what people have midwives for.”

The afterbirth contractions have been horrendous. For the most part, during labor, I was only having those 20-40 second contractions, but these afterbirth ones went on for, like, 4-5 minutes while she was nursing. Not wanting to succumb to the likes of ibuprofen, I had bought some crampbark for tea ahead of time. That was a lifesaver. It really succeeded in taking the edge off.

I was talking to Vern about the birth afterward, commenting on how hard it was and how I didn’t know if I would ever want to put myself through that again. He says, “I didn’t think it was that bad. I think you did amazing.” Which is a really nice thing for him to say and everything, but I’m thinking, “Man, he just doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand how hard it was.” And how can he?

And so, maybe all these other women who I’ve seen giving birth, maybe I’m not able to fully understand the depths that they’ve gone through as well.

Maybe childbirth is not supposed to be everything we expect it to be. Maybe we all have the kind of birth that we need. Maybe we need the struggle, the intensity… and the freedom to handle that in any way we can (whether it be quietly and in control like a lot of the births I’ve seen, or begging for mercy from all the gods in the universe, like I was). There is something to be said for each and every woman’s journey into the depths of her soul that somehow succeeds in making her a better and stronger mother because of it.

And maybe that’s the point of it all.