I’m Nothing if Not Inconsistent

I’m tired.  So, so tired.  But some things need to be documented, so here I am, six months after my last post, posting again.

We spent the bulk of the day today in New Orleans.  It was . . . wow.  I don’t know what I was expecting, but I wasn’t expecting that much human congestion, for sure.  Wait.  That sounds like the city was full of people with head colds or allergies.  Not so.  Not that I know of, anyway, but I wasn’t really asking.  The people . . . it was like being at an amusement park that had no rides.  The people were everywhere.  EVERYWHERE.  The streets were congested with people.  It made for tricky driving, especially since, you know, some of those people appeared to be drunk as they just walked out in front of moving vehicles, specifically our moving vehicle.  We almost took out one young woman twice.  Maybe it was three times.  Forget drinking and driving.  Some people shouldn’t drink and walk.  Just sayin’.

But I have more important stuff to talk about, really.

NOLA was just a stop on a trip to a less happening place called New Iberia, and during that stop we got to meet up with a favorite blogger and her family.  They adopted their son from Vietnam about the same time we adopted ours.  Even though we’ve all died down in the blogging department, we’ve kept in touch through Facebook, and today?  We got to meet for real!  It was totally a blast — me, the English-y introvert with my introverted family,  and her, the science-y extrovert with her extroverted family — eating beignets and watching some woman with a brain injury restraining her barking pit bull as it continued lunging at every passerby.  I know she had a brain injury because she brought a pit bull that wasn’t fond of strangers to NOLA.  And worse?  She brought it to Cafe Du Monde.  Everybody in NOLA plus a few others were eating beignets at Cafe Du Monde.  I know that sounds like hyperbole, but I don’t think it is.

As fun as our lunch at Willie Mae’s and dessert at Cafe Du Monde were, I have something even more significant on my mind.  “How is that even possible,” you are wondering in dismay.  Well, I will tell you:

This is the second vacation we have gone on with Spuds.  The first was our trip west to take A~ to college.  That trip was . . . a trip.  It was hard on him.  When we met up with friends and spent the day in Salt Lake City, he tried to glom on to them and ignore us.  He wanted to hold hands with the other adults.  He wanted to walk with them.  He wanted to sit by them.  He behaved the exact same way with us as he behaved with his previous parents when we first met him.  The lack of attachment was obvious when we first met him, and the lack of attachment to us was obvious in SLC.  After a good bit of this behavior that day, we drew a line in the sand.  Specifically, the husband drew a line in the sand.  We told Spuds he had to stay with us and hold one of our hands.  This led to the first of a few major, public meltdowns.  I blogged about this before, no?  The husband handled them all.  He calmly sat, restraining our screaming, thrashing child, on a bench in Temple Square and, later, on the floor of a Bed Bath and Beyond.  It was all precipitated by our refusal to allow him to ignore us as the parents and seek approval/acceptance/belonging from people he had only just met.

That was last August.  Fast forward to today, and . . . he was ours.  The whole time.  I know he was nervous about being on a trip and meeting new people.  Meeting new families like that will probably be an issue for him for a long time to come, but we’d talked about it and reassured him, and he was ours.  He didn’t put on a show for our friends.  He didn’t try holding their hands (as far as the husband and I saw, anyway; and it’s NOLA, so we were trying to keep a watchful eye on everyone).  If anything, he clung to us more than he normally does.  We were his safe place.  I didn’t really think about it at the time, but when we were in the Suburban, heading west to New Iberia, it hit me.  NO MELTDOWNS occurred.  We didn’t have to pry him away from the friends and demand that he treat us, not them, as the parents.  He was ours.  He is ours.  In the 10ish months he has been with us, he has gotten to a level of attachment and trust that he didn’t have with his last family after 3-plus years.  I have to say, that is a good feeling.  It vindicates the hope I’ve chosen to have for this kid from the very beginning, and it gives me even more hope.

Now, I’m not going to claim everything went perfectly.  When we got into the city, but before we met up with the friends, he got grumpy about me taking pictures and tried to refuse to participate.  I stood my ground for a few snaps, but then we let that be enough.  He wasn’t happy, but there was no meltdown.  Some of his former food issues resurfaced at lunch time as he steadfastly refused to order something.  He said he didn’t want anything.  But when I suggested that I order something and share with him?  Well, he was all for that.  It actually wound up with the husband ordering something and sharing, but Spuds ate lunch.  We had a repeat of this scene at dinner, but, again, a shared meal did the trick.  Just order an extra side, and there is enough food for two anyway.  So Spuds ate dinner.

It’s been about 25 days since his last meltdown.  I’ll have to write about that another time.  We’d been averaging about one meltdown a month, but then there was a bit of an uptick (which I think was brought on by all of the Easter goods hitting the store shelves — the first time he met us was Easter weekend last year), but now it’s been 25 days, and during those 25 days I’ve seen him teeter on the edge and then look at his paper chain on the mantle and settle himself down.  He is choosing to not have tantrums.  Again, a post for another time.  Let’s just say this kid is super motivated by the opportunity to earn extra birthday presents.

So here is where I should come up with some clever way to end the post and tie everything together and maybe be a bit funny, but did I mention I’m so, so tired?  Yeah.   It was a great day, but even great days can be exhausting.

Tewt the Newt is hoping the rest of vacation goes so well.






Newsflash: We Are Not Moving to Australia

I know!  Right???

You’re all thinking, “Since when did anybody think you were moving to Australia?”

The short answer would be, “Never.”

But we all know I’m not good with the short, so here’s the extended version:  for about five minutes (okay, maybe two or three days) a week or so ago, we thought there might be, with a little luck, the remotest possibility that the hubster could get a 2-3 year position in The Land Down Under.

We also all know that I hate moving.  And?  I HATE flying.  But for the chance to live practically on the beach, with winters that feel like our springs and summers that feel like our summers (more or less)?  For the chance to attend events in the Sydney Opera House, watch international surfing competitions (there have to be surfers out there who look like Thor, right?), and take small excursions into the outback?  I mean, not too far into the outback, because I love me some running water and flush toilets, but still.  And speaking of flush toilets . . . for the opportunity to flush a toilet and watch the water swirl backwards??  Who wouldn’t get on a plane for that?

Plus?  Assignments such as these allow one to keep one’s house, so we’d have a home to come back to.

And?  They speak English in Australia!  But I think we all knew that already.

Still, my children would come back with exotic accents (because I’d probably put them in public schools there) (for the cultural experience, of course) (not because I’d want to spend my time reading on the beach) and stories to tell, and I’d have all kinds of great pictures and material for the blog, so maybe I’d start writing on a regular basis again, and the beaches . . . did I mention the beaches?

But, as I said, we are not going.  Apparently even that remote possibility we thought might exist never did.


Did you know that in much, if not most, of the Midwest, all the state parks and the like close at dusk.  Melbourne beaches, however, are open 24 hours.  You don’t have to be a drunk monkey to appreciate the implications.


While I’m on the topic of things we aren’t doing, here are a few more:

First: We aren’t planning to be taken up in the rapture this evening.  By the way, was that all supposed to start at 6p.m. Eastern, Central, or Pacific?  I’m still confused about the details.  Or is God going to start on the east coast and work His way west, abiding by man-made time zones?  That seems unlikely, no?

Anyway, it’s not that we think we are horribly evil people who have no chance, it’s just that we believe: a. Nobody knows when Christ will come again; and b. The rapture (you know, when all the righteous believers just zip on up to heaven, leaving the rest of the world behind and, theoretically, cars careening on the roads and planes falling out of the sky (when the drivers and pilots get taken up)), no matter when it is supposed to happen, is an interesting bit of fiction theory to which we do not subscribe.

Aww, don’t get your undies in a twist.  Nine.9 out of 10 of my readers think the Joseph Smith “story” is fiction, so we’re even, okay?

Second:  We aren’t visiting back home like we should be at this very minute.  McH went to bed sick last night and woke up sicker this morning, when we were supposed to be leaving.  I finally got him to eat a meal at diner time.  Thank heaven for the miracle that is hot and ready pizzas.  Between his decrepitness, germs, and all the germs that have apparently been incubating and brewing at my parents’ house, it seemed best to stay home.

Because we are not visiting back home, Third: we didn’t go to my nephew’s baptism, and Fourth: I will not be going to drool over see Thor with my friends tonight. 

As you can see, we are not doing a whole lot today.

Oh, I just checked the time.  Thor starts in an hour.


And if God is going by time zones, it’s too late for me.  See?  I told you I wasn’t going.

I did weed some landscaping today.  Did you know that thistles and dandelions just really don’t hold the same appeal as Australian beaches?

Oh, right, you did.

Anyway, I hate weeding (hmm . . . I hate a lot of things today: moving, flying, weeding . . . whatever), but I must admit, I felt a little bit like Scarlet O’Hara out there, working my land, gaining a greater appreciation for it, and explaining to my girls that some of the weeds are edible (because, you know, as God is my witness, I will never allow them to go hungry again ever).  I really do love our house and our property here.  Really.  And today was absolutely, perfectly gorgeous weather-wise, so it was all good.  But no worries, I’m not making myself a new dress out of curtains.

After the weeding, I took the oldest two to see the new Pirates movie.  Meh.  That’s about all I can say about that one.  After the movie we stopped at a shoe store just to check it out.  I almost bought some shoes that were “Fergalicious.”  Seriously.  As cute as they were, and as on sale as they were, I decided that: a. they weren’t that comfortable (almost, but not quite); and: b. I couldn’t wear anything with “Fergalicious” stamped on the foot bed.  I mean, what if I was in some accident and one of my shoes got knocked off and then somebody retrieved it for me and was carrying it back to me and happened to see the “Fergalicious” in it and then I had to make eye contact with them to say, “Umm . . . thank you, but that is not my shoe,”?

Because I am a 40-year-old, married, mother of five.  What else could I say?  I mean, other than, “What do you mean the matching shoe is on my other foot?  You aren’t making any sense. Everything looks so dark.  Why do you sound so far away?  I think I need an ambulance . . .”  Then, of course, I’d have to faint.  Or at least pretend to.

It all just sounded like way too much to go through for a pair of shoes.

So, Fifth:  I’m not sporting new, Fergalicious shoes today.

Tewt the Newt thinks that was a wise decision.

I Could Have Been A Very Rich Blockader, or Very Charitable, in 1863

I have 20 people coming to spend the weekend at our house, and so, today, I have felt an almost overwhelming compulsion to organize my linen closets.  I have also felt compelled to take up drinking, but since the 20 people are coming for my youngest daughter’s baptism, it would probably be wildly inappropriate for me to give up 40 years of tee totaling at this point.

So the linen closets took a hit.

They needed it very badly.  My husband is a great unpacker, super fast and efficient.  But one pays a price for said speed and efficiency, and the price is exacted on organization.  So we’ve been here for almost a year now, and the linen closets have been about as organized as a room full of toddlers on crack.

It’s not entirely the husband’s fault, however.  Our last house had one linen closet that was roughly the size of a hummingbird cage.  Whoever designed that floor plan obviously had a smaller family in mind –a smaller family wherein each member gets one towel and one set of sheets each.  Anyway, needless to say, our largish family’s worth of stuff was crammed into that closet anyway we could make it fit, and I didn’t spend much time sorting and weeding for fear it would all come toppling out and: a. I would suffocate; and/or b. we would never be able to get any of it back in.

So willy-nilly it was in that overly minimalist closet, willy-nilly it came out of that ridiculously small closet, and will-nilly it went into my THREE linen closets in the new house.

Oh yes, three.  It is the linen closet version of heaven.  Umm, and we did stick extra stuff in those closets, too.  Like bed pillows.  I have this pillow thing.  Every year at Christmastime, you know, the black Friday sales, my favorite department store back home has fairly decent bed pillows on sale for super duper cheap.  So, every year, I buy some.  I have six pillows on my bed and somewhere between 8-10 extras (though some of those are pretty old).  Crazy, I know, but there it is.  Oh, and yeah, my kids have pillows, too.

Anyhoo, I took everything out of the two upstairs linen closets and then restuffed them with a bit more logic.  Wait.  Rephrase:  I stuffed them a bit more logically.  For instance, the towels and washcloths are now in the closet closest to the upstairs bathroom, and the blankets are in the closet between two of the bedrooms on the other end of the landing/loft/whatever you want to call that ridiculously wonderful large space up there.  I also put clean pillowcases on all the extra pillows so that we can just grab them out as needed for guests (yeah, I really don’t care if their pillowcases match whatever sheets I wind up putting on whichever air mattress they get).

I also organized the sheets!  Can you believe I’m writing about this?  Can you believe you’re reading it???  But oh. my. word! people.  The sheets!  I swear I have/had enough random flat twin and queen sheets to bandage up the entire Union army.  And maybe some of the Confederates, too.  It was crazy, and I didn’t even realize I had them.

Lots of them were old – hand-me-downs.  I’ve always tried, to some degree anyway, to live by the whole “use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without,” way of thinking.  It’s a good way to think, really. Much less waste.  Dare I say it?  GREEN.  Though I never thought of it as green before, just good stewardship and not wasteful.

Anyway, I went through all of those sheets, one by one, and realized I AM OVER IT.  At least when it comes to sheets.  Mostly.  I mean, I didn’t throw them out, because I’m sure my kids will need to make stage curtains or togas or something someday, and when they do I’ll pull out the bag o’ old flat sheets and, voila!  Plus, you never know, the time might come when somebody is desperate for bandages, lots of bandages.

You know what else I realized?  My sheets were apparently last folded by a troupe of drunken monkeys who may or may not have been going at it on the sheets while folding them.  Eee gads.  At least that’s all fixed now (not sure about the monkeys).

Nobody who is coming this weekend is going to see inside my linen closets (at least, I don’t think they will, though I suppose snoopers usually try to keep that on the down low), but now I know what I have and what I need to get to help 20 extra people sleep comfortably as comfortably as possible this weekend, and I’ll be able to access it all rather readily, and there is absolutely no way I nor anybody else could hide a bottle of hooch in there.  The closets are that neat and tidy.

Though hooch and bandage material could have really made me rich in 1863.

Oh, who am I kidding?  I could hide a drunk Munchkin behind all those pillows.

Tewt the Newt has decided to think about it all another day.

A Thousand Posts Squished Into One . . . . . . . . . . . Maybe

Or maybe just a lot of rambling that will bore you to death.  Who knows?  It’s an adventure!  We’ll all find out together, and by the end we’ll either be all, “Wow! What a post!”  or “Wow!  How does one blather so much about nothing of any import?”

Either way, I figure it will make me look talented.

Wuv for the Wovel

If you are my Facebook friend, then you may already know what a Snow Wovel is.  If not? You are missing out!  Unless I already talked about it on my blog?  I don’t remember.

See, our current abode has a driveway that is . . . long.  It’s only one car wide (until you get up to the garage, where it fans out into a three-car-wide concrete apron) (yes, I imagine cars all nestled on the concrete like potatoes being carried to the kitchen in Ma Ingalls’ apron) (or something like that).  But the narrow driveway is looooong.

Since we are in Canada South and all, I told McH we really needed to get a snow blower.  He said snow blowers are for sissies.  (Or something like that).  I pointed out that, according to his lower back which no longer has all of it’s disks, he should be a sissy.  Right.  He didn’t share that opinion, and insisted that he would shovel the driveway by hand.


So my parents were going to give him money to put towards a snow blower for Christmas; but then I found it!  I found the Snow Wovel!  Since it is much cheaper than a snow blower, I suggested to my parents that they just get him one of those do-hickies for Christmas.  They did.  And?

I WUV the Wovel.  McH likes it, too.  I shoveled almost the entire driveway yesterday, and would have finished had it not been for the pesky fact that my family likes to eat dinner and I needed to get it started.  I’m telling you, the Wovel is great!

Not only does it make it so easy to shovel snow that even a(n) (out-of-shape, 40-year-old) girl can do it, but . . . oooo, this is the good part . . . all of my tree-hugging, left-leaning liberal friends who are wondering, “Dear God in Heaven, is global warming getting that out of control or am I going through menopause??” will love it because it is greener than Al Gore’s bank account.

Oh, and by the way?  It’s menopause.  Hello???  Ice in Atlanta this week???

But all that aside, if you live in an area that requires driveway shoveling in the winter, you should get yourself one of these contraptions.  Compared to a regular shovel, the Wovel saves your back.  Compared to a snow blower, the Wovel saves you loads of money on gasoline, or saves the planet.  However you want to spin it.  Personally, I like the fact that if hyperinflation ever hits, or cap and trade passes, or whatever, I won’t have to weight the pros and cons of going broke tanking up a snow blower versus risking a stroke or heart attack due to regular hand shoveling.

I think we need to get a second Snow Wovel.  Seriously.  I mean, we can do the job in a reasonable amount of time with one, but with two?  It wouldn’t take any time at all.

Hormones and Headaches and Doctors and Such

You may or may not recall that several months ago I went to a wellness/anti-aging Dr. here in Canada South, got all kinds of blood and saliva testing done, and started taking bio-identical hormones for my migraines.

Overall, the hormones have been very helpful.  Not a perfect solution, but helpful.  My noise sensitivity is gone, I only get one headache a month these days, and it resembles a really bad tension headache more than an actual migraine.  Much better than things had been for several months preceding my foray into the wellness dr. world.

But! (I think I blogged about this?) I was getting fed up with the Dr.’s office.  When they lost my records and lied to my face about it all, and then I called them on it and they tried to cover it up with more crap, I was pretty much done.  So, as I think I’ve previously said, I set up an appointment with a wellness/anti-aging Dr. back home.

You guys!  I literally cried in his office. I mean, I didn’t bawl and carry on or anything, but the man had no Kleenex handy so he gave me a paper towel to wipe my nose.  Because?  When I told him about the migraines and the food sensitivities, he said, “You know, there is testing we can do to try to figure out all of your food issues.  Would you like to do that?”

Dude!  I have been reading about this kind of testing off and on for years, and had Dr.s tell me it’s a bunch of crap since my reactions aren’t of the rashy, anaphylactic, immediate (IgE) type.  THOSE kinds of allergies are simple to test for, but my kind of reactions, the delayed (IgG) type?  Different story.  The thing is, the testing is just a simple blood draw.  It’s really not complicated.  It’s just the validity of the test results that many Dr.s question.  I understand some of their issues with the testing, but still . . . when you’ve been dealing with food sensitivities that cause crippling migraines for nearly half your life, it’s nice to find a Dr. who wants to get to the bottom of it.  It even brings a tear to your eye.

My Dr. here in Canada South?  When I told her about the food issues?  She just gave me hormones and didn’t think twice about the food, or the health of my gut (ooo, aren’t you glad I’m talking about my intestines now?) or trying to heal that mess.  But this new doc?  That is his top priority.  Oh, he’s keeping me on hormones (though changing my dosing to cyclical rather than static) (which I figured is what I should have been doing anyway, but the other doc, I think, was just more interested in selling me the hormones and making extra fun money), but he is also putting me on some detox supplements and, when we get the IgG test results back from the lab, an elimination diet.  *SNORT*  The past decade and a half of my life have been one huge elimination diet, but whatever.  He seems to think that we can possibly get it all figured out to the point that we could actually heal me.  I don’t know if I have that much faith in it, but it would be nice, so I’m willing to give it a try.

Either way, the new doc spent three and a half hours talking with me last Friday.  In the past several months I haven’t spent more than a half hour total with the doctor here.  So I’d say it was worth the 4.5 hour drive down to his office.

In addition to doing the internal detox stuff he’s putting me on, I’m changing my skin care (this is not something he told me to do, just something I am doing).  I have known I should do this for a long time because the skin care products I use, as much as I like them, are full of parabens and other chemical crap.  I’ve probably taken 20 years off of my life trying to take 10 years off of my face.  So I’m switching to more natural (which, of course, equates to more expensive) products.  I’m hoping to detox my body of all the crap and toxins that I can.  Can’t wait to get it all started.

My First Catholic Funeral

While I was down home for my Dr. appointment, I wound up staying for a few extra days since my aunt died.

Can I just take a moment here to say what total troopers my kids were through all of this?  Between the 4.5 hour drive home, then, a couple days later, the 3.5 hour drive to my parents’ hometown for the funeral, then the 4.5-hour-turned-into-6.5-hour drive back to Canada South, with a dive of a hotel, a funeral, and a stressed-out, back-spasmming, grumpy mom thrown in – they were fantastic!

While we were in town for the funeral we went to a certain deli for lunch.  Oh my word, people!  You would love this deli.  The sandwiches are HUGE.  If I could eat the bread mine came on, it would have made at least two meals, and I got a small gyro.  I got two sandwiches for five kids to share, and it fed all of them lunch and some of them dinner.  This deli is pure awesomeness.  I’d tell you the name, except I know they are specific to that location so: A. I’d be divulging more information than I am comfortable with on my blog; B. You couldn’t find one in your town, anyway; and C. The last time I googled the name of the deli to find out if they were a chain, or were expanding, or whatever, all of my search results came up in Arabic or something, so I’m probably already on a government watch list for sponsoring terror. 

My aunt was Catholic, though I don’t think I ever actually heard her say a kind word about the Catholic church, so her funeral was the full Mass thing.  I’ve only ever been to one other full Mass thing, a wedding, so I feared for my children’s ability to keep the circus-that-is-us reigned in for that long.  Luckily, other than my deceased aunt, there were only about half a dozen other Catholics in attendance, so the Communion part went lickity-split (seriously, started and finished while I had Midge out for a potty break).  The whole turning to the people closest to you and shaking their hand and/or giving them a message of peace is always a little awkward for me, and I thought my kids were going to have uncontrollable fits of giggling when I shook their hands, but I didn’t know what else to do.  Other than that, what is there to say?  It was a funeral.  Never the happiest of occasions.

At least there was no applause, nor was there cheering, unlike a recent televised memorial service.  I’ll admit, I only saw about the last five or ten minutes of that one, but what was up with all the applause and cheering?  For the love, people!  Can you imagine being the mother of that nine-year-old girl, or the fiancé of the 30-year-old aid, or anyone else related to anyone who was killed, and having all of those people clapping and cheering all around you at the memorial service?  Okay, I don’t know which of the relatives were actually there, but hopefully you get the point.   I was appalled.

Speaking of Things Involving Politicians

For days now (literally, since the day after the shooting) I’ve had a post for the political blog running through my head.  The working title is, Are Liberals Too Stupid for Metaphor?  But I’ve been too busy to write it.  By the time I finally get around to it, it will probably be pointless, so I’ll just sum it up here:  If you’ve ever said, “Aim high!” or “Shoot for the moon,” or “It was a shot in the dark,” then you are obviously a perpetuator of violent rhetoric and vitriol.  You are also invited to join my club.  Annual dues are reasonable and you’ll get a membership card which entitles you to a photocopied page of my Holman and Harmon Handbook to Literature (it will be the page with the definition of metaphor).

Anyway, if I write that post now, it will just look like I’m copying the likes of Michelle and Ann Coulter.  Hmm . . . all of us coming up with this metaphor thing . . . is it a conspiracy or just common sense?

Reading Material

I am desperate for something good to read.  Don’t get me wrong, I have stacks of books that I have yet to read, but I don’t feel like getting bogged down in something I might not like.  I started Uncle Tom’s Cabin (right, how did I make it through college with an English major and never read this book?); but I got to the part where the mother finds out the master has signed the papers to sell her child, so she is running away with him and . . . I stopped.  A~ recently read this book and said she thinks it is the best book she has ever read (which is really saying something) even though it is sad. 

What can I say?  It’s January.  The days are short, the nights are long, and even my 5,000 IUs of vitamin D haven’t gotten my levels up to where they should be.  I can’t do sad right now.

I’m thinking of re-reading the whole Harry Potter series, but am open to suggestions.  I haven’t read an entire novel in months.  How sad is that.  Oh, and THANK YOU Kathleen for the book you sent me.  But is it sad?  I can handle tragic, just not running-for-her-life-with-her-little-child sad.

*GASP* Just hit with a bit of personal insight.  Moving on . . .

Actually, I’m Out

Yep, I think that’s it.  Unless you care to hear about my back spasms that wouldn’t go away until I could get home and sleep in my own bed, or the cold McH and I are both coming down with, or my (possibly irrational) fear that bedbugs infested our luggage in the hotel, (You know how some people steal hotel towels? I could have easily stolen a shower knob since it kept leaping off the wall and all), or our upcoming vacation to Florida.

Oh, yes!  We are finally going to take a Florida vacation!  In February!  I’m thinking it should be covered by insurance since it will undoubtedly help my low, low vitamin D levels.  But our insurance is pretty crappy anyway.

What are the chances butterbeer will be approved for my upcoming detox plan?

Tewt the Newt thinks not.

Recent Happenings of Note

First:  A friend of mine posted her response to those who ask, “Why adopt kids from other countries when there are so many right here in the US who need homes?”  Her response is spot on.  Even if you don’t believe in God, I think you will agree with everything else she says.  Go Val!

Second:  When your child doesn’t talk much it is more difficult to get a sense of who they really are.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying you can’t know who your child is, what kind of personality he or she has.  I’m just saying some of the finer points are a bit fuzzy.  Some of those finer points are gaining clarity as Quinn is speaking more and more.  Yesterday when A~ helped him get of the potty* but before she could help him get his pants back on, he stuck his little boy bits out in her general direction and said, “I pee on you!  I pee on you!”  Tonight at supper he spent most of the time pretending to steal, eat, vomit back up, and return his brother’s nose.  Finer point: he is all boy, and boys are gross.

Third:  The sperm donor** is now on the internet.  McH finally got around to telling him we moved (via email) and he responded (does this mean we aren’t dead now?).  Maybe I should worry that he might somehow find my blog and discover that I call him the sperm donor.  Instead?  I’m completely dumbfounded by the fact that this man has a Twitter account.  Firstly?  The man can’t say anything in less than a 140 very monotone, very boring paragraphs.  Secondly, he is about the most anti-social person I’ve ever met, so a social network?  Really??  I checked out his Twitter account, or feed, or whatever you call it (really?  I get Facebook, but Twitter?  Not so much).  All he does is tweet policy suggestions to the President, who he loves, and get-a-clue-you-idiot messages to Sarah Palin, who he hates, along with a smattering of suggestions to Bill Maher.  He thinks they are actually reading it. 

Fourth:  Do you all remember Michelle from And Sam Makes Seven?  She’s back!  She’s back!  Yay!!!!!

Fifth:  My parents were looking for something to get McH for Christmas, and today?  They ordered him this:


You see, he adamantly does not want a snow blower.  I adamantly do not want him to need more back surgery.  This Snow Wovel, I hope, is the perfect compromise.  I watched a video of a guy shoveling snow with it, and it looks EASY.  Plus?  It is way cheaper than a snow blower.  And?  It is green!  Okay, we all know I’m not a big tree hugger or anything, but if inflation goes out of control and things get really bad like some people are predicting?  This bad boy will make living in Canada South easier without requiring us to buy liquid gold.  So we’re going to see how it works, and if it’s as great as it seems we’ll probably order another one.  Then, if the kids feel so motivated (and ever get tall enough) they can push their Snow Wovels around the neighborhood and maybe make a buck or two (or, you know, 25 cents if the economy really tanks more).

Sixth:  I have spent part of this evening trying to hammer out a guest list for a Christmas party that we want to have a week from the day-after-tomorrow.  I know, nothing like waiting until the last minute to invite people over on the last Saturday before Christmas.  Anyway . . . People!  This is hard.  We just can’t possibly invite everybody from church; yet our congregation is pretty close knit, so inviting several of them but not all of them is . . . tricky.  Plus, McH wants to invite people from work.  As of right now, our pared-down prospective guest list is 60+ people.  Crazy!  There is no way we could possibly have 60 adults in our house at one time.  Not all on the same level, anyway.  So I am vacillating between “Cut the list!  Cut the list!” and, “This is all so last minute that probably only four of them will be able to come anyway, so we might as well invite EVERYONE.”  I’m at the point where I’d be happy to just scrap the whole thing and, in exchange, vow to start planning next year’s Christmas party in October; but my husband really wants to have this party.  So strange, this is.  So very, very strange.  Umm . . . help!

Tewt the Newt thinks perhaps it is time for some rice nog with artificial rum flavoring.

*Quinn can get himself on the potty with no help.  He can also get himself off with no help, but he refuses.  He insists that someone come in and help him clean up, even if there is nothing to clean up, and help him get his pants back on.

**Biological FIL

Since When Do I NOT Blog?

What can I say?  Life has been busy, and by the end of the day all I want to do is go to bed.  Also?  I blame it on Facebook.

I’ve decided Facebook is a blogger’s whore.  It’s quick, easy, and always there when you just need to get something out of your system.  However, much like a hookup with a working girl or guy (and I am just surmising here, since I have no actual experience in such things), Facebook isn’t enough.  It satisfies the itch, but doesn’t fulfill the need.

For instance, Facebook does not allow me to write in depth about such captivating topics as:

  • Victoria’s Secret advertising and the slutification of America;
  • The fiscal irresponsibility of politicians from my previous state sending me mailers begging for my vote at my current, new state, address;
  • My oldest daughter’s 13th birthday party and a ridiculously easy and charming fall craft the kids did;
  • The statistical unlikelihood that all of the murderers in Detroit are white, despite what that new Detroit-based cop show seems to be saying;
  • The ongoing story of Tank Boy and how he’s dealing with his adoption realities (and how he tries to milk it for attention at times – and don’t judge me, because you aren’t here and I don’t have time to give you the full picture right now, but he has tried to play on our sympathies, though not a lot);
  • Quinn, his ever burgeoning speech, and the interesting correlation I see between it and our move this past spring (not unlike our first move and Tank Boy’s unexpectedly reduced anxiety and improved behavior).
  • Selective mutism – damn if they don’t stick a stupid label on everything these days.  What’s worse is the helicopter parents who buy into the need to drag their children to  therapy for all of these labels.  Who, me?  Strong opinions?  Someday I’ll share my personal tale of selective mutism with you, how I think it applies to my youngest son (though I’d never slap the label on him), and why I’d have been a fool to take him to therapy for it.  Maybe when I do blog about labels I’ll even blather a bit about my experiences both as a “gifted” child and as a parent of “gifted” children, and how I feel about that one;
  • The pros and cons of buying vs. making and bottling your own applesauce;
  • Popcorn salt!;
  • The effectiveness of house elves as domestic help – would I have to replace them every time I had one fold laundry?  Hmm . . . ;
  • Bioidentical hormones, the two month absence of my migraines, and the return of my Hobbit feet (and other things);
  • My thoughts on God and adoption, which I’ve said for years I am going to write. It’s not that I’m avoiding it, it’s just that it’s a BIGGIE and I haven’t been able to give it the time it deserves.  When I finally do write it, it will probably be in two or three parts.

See, it’s not that I’m not blogging for lack of topics.  It’s just that I haven’t had time.

And Tewt the Newt is open to suggestions as to which topic should be addressed first!