Jan 18

This is interesting.  Right in line with my thinking on the whole birth control thing.  From a blog called Feministe.

So here’s my question: Why is the uterus the only part of the body that we’re supposed to let God fully control as He sees fit? When our other body parts aren’t doing what we want them to, we intervene. We cut our fingernails and toenails, despite the fact that, God-willing, they would grow out into long curling claws. Many Americans circumcise their sons, changing the natural appearance of their genitalia. We use radiation and chemotherapy to kill God-given cancer cells. We immunize ourselves against illnesses that we might otherwise contract if we submitted to the natural order of things. We have nationwide debates about artificially prolonging the life of someone who is unable to survive without medical intervention. Children born with deformities which don’t affect their physical abilities, but don’t “look right,” often have surgery. Diabetics take insulin. Plenty of good Christian men take Viagra. I’ll bet that the very Quiverfulls who insist that women’s bodies be at the mercy of God’s reproductive preferences would nonetheless allow medical intervention if those same women were near death during or after childbirth. I’ll bet they would allow for a C-section if the baby was going to die during birth without it.

Why all the interference with God’s plan?

Jan 17

I watched Mel Gibson’s new movie Apocalypto last night.  It is really good.  Really. Very very good.  I absolutely recommend it.  But, be warned, it is EXTREMELY gruesome and gory in some parts so if you have a weak stomach this movie probably isn’t for you. 

I couldn’t say if the movie is historically accurate, although I understand there has been some controversy over some aspects of the movie.  Some people have said Gibson depicted the ancient Mayans as brutal and savages.  But I think it’s fair to say that it’s the extremes in society that often make good stories and Gibson is telling the story of a society that is in a desperate situation of drought, and the extremes they are willing to go to in order to survive.  In this case, their religion demands human sacrifice.  I don’t have the knowledge to make a judgment on the anthropological implications.  But it was a story well told.  Definitely worth watching.

Jan 17

…besides, you know, EATING.

1.  Stick one arm straight up in the air like a flagpole.

2.  Bite.

3.  Cry.

4.  Maul your mother with free hand, yank on clothes, jewelry, poke her in the eyes/nose/teeth, stuff your ENTIRE hand in her mouth.

5.  Kick like a  goat who is about to be cooked for dinner.

6.  Bite.

7.  Stop eating and turn around to make sure the world is still there.  Resume eating. Repeat every 10 seconds.  Observe how long it takes your mother to completely loseWeight Exercise it.

8.  Blow “bubbles” (or zerberts/strawberries, whatever you call them) right on your mother’s boob.

9. Spit up.

10.  Oh, and there’s always biting if everything else gets old.

Jan 16

Jan 12

Avery has develoed what is known as picky-eater-syndrome a discriminating palate in recent weeks.  She turns up her nose at all types of food that don’t include the words french and fries in the title.  If a meal contains such vile items at green peppers or onions we might as well be asking her to eat barbed wire, her protests are that outraged. 

“I DON’T LIKE ONIONS!  BLECH!” 

It is driving us a bit crazy because a) we want her to learn to eat a variety of foods, but mostly b) we want her to eat enough supper that she does not start begging for breakfast one hour after we put her to bed.  Cruel and unreasonable we may be, but this is the reality at our house. 

In the past few days Avery has refused to lower herself to consume chicken fajitas, curried salmon, and pasta alfredo.  Lest you think our diet is too exotic for a three year old (ha!) she has eaten all these foods before and generally found them satisfying.  But after achieving this new level of enlightenment she disdains all nourishment.  Food!  Food is for mortals!  We do not require sustenance!  We are threeeeee!!!! (insert evil laugh) 

Last night we prepared for the usual battle.  You never know what is ahead, although we believed that our choice of powdered cream of broccoli soup did not contain anything too offensive.  Surely it doesn’t contain any actual broccoli.  Unfortunately, in the pre-dinner chaos, I didn’t pay enough attention and the soup, which naturally includes milk, got scalded.  If you’ve ever eaten something with scalded milk you’ll know that it is a pretty foul taste, akin to eating burned rubber.  I prepared for the onslaught of protests of IT’S YUCKY! BLECH!!  Of course, I couldn’t blame her.  I certainly wasn’t interested in eating it.

What does my daughter say after tasting the soup?  “Mommy, how did you make this DEE-LICIOUS soup?” as she chows down, amazed at her mother’s excellent cooking skills.  The secret is in the sprinkling of the powdered soup when the combined milk and water have just begun to burn to the bottom of the pan.  I should write a cookbook. 

I pray to God this girl does not become a restaurant critic.  Chefs everywhere will be slitting their wrists.

Jan 12

I can’t believe how similar my kids look when I look back at pictures of Avery at the age Kieran is. If it weren’t for the girly clothes or the fact that her head was covered with enough hair for all the babies born that year I wouldn’t be able to tell them apart in some pictures. Check it out below. Can you tell which is which? (Obviously the one with both of them in the bath is pretty clear…but the others…)  See answers below:

I guess it’s really not that hard if you look at the clothing clues but just in case you were stumped at all…
1.  Avery
2. Kieran (and Avery)
3. Kieran
4. Avery
5. Kieran

Jan 12

I believe I mentioned something about getting our asses kicked by the weather just a couple days ago???

Jan 10

I’ve been reading old posts by dooce about her daughter and parenting in general. This is totally where I’m at today:

You’re in this stage of life where the only way to communicate to us is by complaining, and that’s the thing about kids. You can get away with it because you don’t know any better, and as your parents we have to accept that sometimes, more often than not, all you do is complain. When you’re an adult and pay bills and the government takes more than a third of your income, sometimes it’s just not nice to complain all the time, even when you can’t have the remote. EVEN THEN, LETA. People don’t want to hear it all the time because they’ve heard it a thousand times already and at some point you just have to suck it. This last paragraph is more for me than it is for you because when you hang out with someone who does nothing but complain all day you, like me, may want to put that person out on the sidewalk with a sign around her neck that reads, “FREE, OR BEST OFFER.”

What I’m trying to say is, this month when people ask me about my week or my day or even the two hours I’ve been awake with you, instead of barfing all over them and lamenting the fact that damn, Gina, this is so hard, so very very hard, the hardest thing I’ve ever done, wah wah WAH WAH WAH, I‘m trying to look at them and say, “She calls me Mama, now. I never knew that word could be so amazing.”

Exactly.

Jan 10

The kids are playing quietly together in the playroom. There are only a few short moments of this peace during the day.  I will try and enjoy it.  It is cold and miserable outside. The heavens opened up last night and covered us with snow.  I think I may stay home today just because it will be way too much work to get out with the kids.  I hate snowsuits.

I have spent the past several days working on a slideshow/video that I am making for some friends.  Friends who, when I was pregnant with Kieran, miscarried their seventh baby.  A baby who was big enough to make little one inch long footprints.  They had a memorial service for their children last June to create some closure and to celebrate the lives of the babies.  It was beautiful and poignant and I hope it was very healing for them.  I took a lot of pictures that day and I am putting the pictures into this slideshow as a way for them to remember the day.

Working on the video has brought some unexpected emotions.  I always thought I could empathise with these friends.  I haven’t lost a baby but I could imagine what it must feel like.  But as I put together the pictures, as I listened to the lyrics of a song about losing a baby, as I searched for images of tiny feet and hands online, I realized that I have no idea what they have gone through.  In the past few days the possibility of losing my children has gripped my soul with icy, heartwrenching sadness.  As I remembered the birth of my kids and imagined what it would be like to not hear them cry but to hold a limp and lifeless, tiny body and to will it to come back, my heart awakened to the pain that these parents must feel. Parents of seven beautiful babies, most of whom were big enough to be delivered when they died, but not big enough to survive.  Parents with empty arms and broken hearts.  Parents who went through the difficulty of a pregnancy and the pain of a deliver, but had no baby to cuddle afterwards.

I had no conception of this kind of pain.  I probably still don’t really understand and, perhaps, never will.  But the tears I have shed in the designing of this small token will be a memorial for seven little babies, two of which would be almost the exact same age as my own children.

*I found this image online but I altered the size until the footprints were the same size as the ones that my friends had from their second son after he was born. 



In loving memory of…

Michael Peter – May 10, 1998

Joseph Paul – July 5, 1999

“Peanut” – August 2000

Mabel Rose – May 30, 2002

Sarah Anne – March 2003
                                                                                                           
“Tim-Bit” – April 8, 2004

Josiah Timothy – November 8, 2005

Jan 8

When I was looking into getting an insulin pump just over a year ago, I received this little yellow booklet along with an information package from one of the insulin pump manufacturers. 

The booklet is published by a man named Chuck Eichten who is a Juvenile Diabetic and uses an insulin pump and is promoting the pumps for diabetics.  He doesn’t promote a specific brand for a specific company. He is just trying to convince people, like me, who are a little bit nervous about the pump that it is totally worth it. 

He is so right. 

And the book is really funny. There are some snippets here where he has recently started a website.  If you know anyone with Type 1 (Juvenile) Diabetes they should check this out.  Because, as Mr. Eichten so eloquently puts it…a little better is better!

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