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Making a list or six

2012-02-06T17:21:05Z

For the Babe:

Buy a new Nosefrida

Buy a small stack of prefolds

Buy new crib hardware

And of course, the great washing of ALL THE THINGS

Make cool-weather swaddle blanket

For the Marauder:

Buy or make a back-up outfit for his school cubby/summer activities

Paint and decorate his room

Make Spring/cool weather blanket

Find all of his educational materials and put them in Home Ed cabinet

Figure out ways to challenge him in his reading and perk up his math interest

For Patrick:

Keep mouth shut about glacial progress of things I cannot do myself

Draw rough sketch of possible kitchen and living room floorplans

For the House:

Trim the curtains

Re-organize the bathroom storage

Re-organize the kitchen storage

Pick out paint for our bedroom

Vacuum as primary anti-flea measure

Run steam cleaner over all easy chairs

New couch?

New armchair for our room?

New dresser for kids?

For the Pets:

Apply Frontline monthly

Find good place for cat tree and then get one

Find bigger cat box?

Get Faolan back on track walking with me in am

For me:

Walking!

Stop drinking coffee, it’s making me swell

No take-out/fast food, see swelling

Go to knitting night every week

The teaching reading thing

2012-02-03T07:14:42Z

Shay and I have been poking through phonics. After becoming enamoured with the Starfall website and then having him balk at words on paper, I’ve put Starfall aside and gotten my hands on a copy of “The Ordinary Parent’s Guide to Teaching Reading”, which is co-written by one of the authors of “The Well-Trained Mind”. We quickly reviewed alphabet sounds and have been working on the many splendors of the short “a” words. My only strategy is to keep this similar to potty training and push as little as possible. Of course, he never played dumb during potty training but has during many a reading lesson, which drives me batty. But he’s had some good decoding success when he applies himself, which is about one time in every three. Reading from last week after flashcard review:

Pat is a cat.

Pat is a fat cat.

Pat the fat cat sat.

Pat the fat cat sat on a mat!

Tonight’s reading, no flashcard review:

Dad

Dad had

Dad had a tan

Dad had a tan hat.

Dad had a black cat.

The black cat was fat.

The black cat sat.

The fat black cat sat.

The fat black cat sat on Dad’s hat!

Dad was mad at the fat black cat.

Dad was sad about his tan hat.

Was dad’s fat black cat bad?

I think building the first sentence up helped. One day, I’ll get him to look at “Hop on Pop” and realize that essentially it’s what we’re doing now. Next up: mixing in more “ack” and introducing “am”, “ab”, and “and” words.

Dumb damage

2012-01-23T01:42:36Z

Two things have been sliding towards ineffibility lately: me injuring myself and me breaking something expensive. One happened Thursday, the other this morning.

I had been on the tail end of the bronchitis when Seamus brought home a headcold that turned to post-nasal drip pretty quickly. Not a problem if I hadn’t already been coughing hard for weeks. On Thursday Seamus and I walked into the cafe I take him to for his post-swimming class hot chocolate. I coughed twice and felt a POP on the left side of my ribcage. I dropped to my knees for a couple of seconds - it hurt that much - and took a couple of breaths trying to figure out what I’d just done. It didn’t hurt to breathe, which reduced the likelihood of a fracture, but pain ran down my ribs from my armpit down to my floating ribs (where I felt the pop), then wrapped around to my back. Given I was in the Alameda Marketplace with my cafe-bound four year old, and that I could breathe and walk, I hit the ATM and got him his chocolate. I told Shay what had happened, told him what we needed to do to get dinner on track for Thursday and Friday, texted Patrick about the injury, then shopped with one hand while Seamus pushed the cart.

The kid may be a terror, but he is superlative in emergencies.

I got home and got through the evening with half of my torso ignoring the Tylenol and mineral ice I used for the pain. After reading on the Mayo Clinic website that I should lie on the injury if I could, I did, and woke up sore but feeling better until I gingerly attempted to figure out how much mobility I had, felt a weird rubbing sensation, and THEN couldn’t breathe without pain. Enter an advice nurse who thought I was in preterm labor or developing pneumonia, despite my very clear descriptions of what was happening, and for some reason didn’t believe me when I said I’d stopped taking my bronchitis meds because they stopped working. Not quite sure what to do with me, she got me in to see an OB-GYN here on the island my mom came down to drive me there and to help pick up Seamus, which turned out to be a good thing as Patrick got stuck in bridge traffic.

Dr. H checked my lungs and found them to be clear, checked T/M and found him/her active with a good heartbeat, felt my ribcage and said she thought it was a muscular inflammation, and gave me a scrip for Tylenol with codeine. Poor T/M, to be fairly chemical free until the third trimester, and then to get cold meds, steroids, and opiates all in a month. I am grateful to be carrying low and transverse, as 90% of the movement I feel is nowhere near my ribcage. And I’m feeling a LOT of movement. She referred me to the x-ray clinic in Oakland, but said they would call me since they were already closed. Fortunately, I’m feeling a lot better. I’m not lifting anything heavier than the cats, but all I feel is a bit sore when I lie down or get up.

Good thing, since I dropped and smashed my phone this morning.

Oh look, there's my sense of humor

2012-01-17T00:23:10Z

“I’m going to fire you as my mama!”

“Sorry kiddo, I was elected Mother-for-Life. You may call me ‘Generalissima’.”

“I’ll call you ‘Mama’.”

“That works too.”

I killed Santa

2012-01-14T00:18:04Z

So the behavior has been a slog for most of the last six months. We got a reprieve when Seamus turned four in that he stopped screaming when asked to do a task he could perform, but he still refuses, demands help, and refuses to accept any consequence for his actions. And yeah, I get that cause and effect can be pretty abstract for a kid, I’ve seen in documentaries what kids his age do in other countries as part of the household, and it makes this whole developmental stages thing look pretty damn first world. Add the asking questions then challenging the answers, speaking to us in snotty voices, and I’m wondering if I could send him out to fosterage with Namibian cattleherds, so he has something to actually complain about.

Then the stuff stream ran from his birthday through to New Year’s, and boy, you’d think he’d at least be satisfied with the haul of shit he’s acquired. Oh no. Apparently Santa played rainmaker for all of his friends and he’s completely deprived. Those goddamn Scholastic book catalogs from preschool open evenings of begging for horrible books based on TV show scripts (we’ve gotten a few from other folks, I checked them and confirmed that) with licensed characters. Then he purposely broke the balsa-wood gliders he got as a gift “because I don’t like the ones without rubber bands” without ever opening them - just snapped them in half, rendering them useless for anyone to enjoy. Badgering me for MORE stuff, while not playing with any of his new toys, many or which are open-ended and lovely. And of course, the refusal to take on his role in the household- no dressing himself, no feeding the cats.

Then the last straw: “I’m going to be good…for Santa”.

“For…Santa? You’re going to start making good choices for Santa.”

“Yeah, so he’ll give me LOTS of toys on Christmas.” There may have been some insinuation that he didn’t get enough stuff this year.

OH HELL NO. We had kept Santa at bay pretty well till last year, when preschool introduced a lot of mainstream stuff we had omitted deliberately. I’ve mentioned St. Nick to Seamus before in the context of giving to others with less than we had, and always pointed out that we had more than enough to amuse and sustain us. But the last half year of tantrums, negotiating and arguing and haggling, always to get his way while he gave nothing in return has worn me down, and the idea that my kid would behave for an imaginary fat guy for an imagined payday is more upsetting than the fact that his classmates’ parents come up to me and tell me how lovely and what a good friend he is to their children while he proclaims to be happy to let our pets starve to death.

“Seamus, Santa isn’t real. He’s a made up story.”

“But he gave me my batteries for my nano-bugs.”

“Nope, that was Dada. We meet all of your needs, kiddo.”

There was some verbiage about how we all do our part to take care of each other and blah blah blah. I’ll be damned if he’s going to keep driving me crazy while thinking some fake dude brought him his toys. Oh no, little man. The pastels you love? and the stuffed tiger? The Babymouse comic? They came from the folks who love and support you and want you to be happy and a fuctional part of our family. Maybe someday you could grok the rest of that memo and join us in making sure we’re all cared for. Start by feeding the goddamn cats.

Screw the goat rodeo, I'm making cabrito

2012-01-09T17:30:44Z

Seamus almost went to school half-naked this morning. I don’t mean in his underpants either, but full-out half naked, as he’d thrown his underpants across the room. He knows how to dress himself, and in fact had been asked several times to dress himself while I made breakfast (smoothies and whole-grain toast with hummus or nut butter, which has improved his mood remarkably over his Trader Joe’s Os, presumably by increasing his fiber and protein intake), but got interrupted several times to “help him”. I reminded him several times that he knew how to dress himself, that I needed to get ready to take him to school, and went back to the kitchen. This was getting irritating - getting him dressed is something I don’t want to do. I know he can dress himself, and he doesn’t have an excuse for not doing it. Patrick dresses him still, but it’s not a fight I’ve been wanting to have. Patrick also endlessly negotiates with him, and it makes my life difficult in a thousand ways.

I finally make breakfast, walk to his room, and he’s locked the door. Which means he knows what he’s doing is unacceptable. I walk around through our room and the bathroom, open the door, and find his clothes flung everywhere, and Seamus hiding in the closet. So now he gets yelled at, clothes thrust in his direction angrily, and late late late I get him to the table, and skip breakfast myself so I can get my own clothes on. All the while he continues to yell out for a sippy cup instead of an open cup, that he’s spilled and I need to clean it (another skill he can actually do), and just general regression of behaviors. I manage to get dressed and my various bronchitis meds in me (I’ve been sick for almost three weeks now) and get him in the car. When I sign him in, we’re twenty minutes late. Not a big deal this year, but worrisome for next year. If we go public, that’s an 8:20 start time. Montessori, an 8:30. And it’s school school, not this play-based, project-oriented pre-K program.

If it weren’t a school day, I could have waited him out while I did dishes and laundry and fed myself (and because I’m constantly thinking six months out, the baby too), and gotten the at home things done while he ran through his dickery. But getting him anywhere in the mornings is so damn hard. Patrick is always, always much later than I was today. And if it weren’t for the damn morning bell lurking eight months ahead, plus the fact that he hasn’t stopped slamming against boundaries since he started walking, I’d sweat this a lot less. I’d yell less and feel less stressed about either being a shitty parent because of the yelling, or a shitty parent because my kid is constantly late.

For those of you wanting to tell me that he’ll change at five, I tell you now that the only difference between three and four is that I used to have to be two steps ahead of Seamus in order for the day to not involve yelling, and now I have to be five. The only thing that changes as he gets older is that really basic things keep getting harder as he keeps struggling against them. So fuck off. The only thing that works is to give him no feedback whatsoever, and to wait him out. Which doesn’t work so well when you have to urge a kid through the morning three times a week.

So I’ve made up my mind. Barring some very significant sea change, it’s a gap year at home.

The Kindergarten hunt, part four: transitional Kindergarten?

2012-01-03T01:31:11Z

We had a playdate with two of Shay’s preschool buddies last week. One of the moms teaches third grade in another district, and while we chatted I mentioned the possibility of letting Seamus do a “gap year”. She p’shawed a second, then asked me when his birthday was. I told her (two weeks from the cut-off, which makes him a very young five) and she smiled and said, “hmm, yeah, I can see doing that”. Then she told me that her district is taking part in the transitional kindergarten program passed by the state last year.

The Kindergarten Readiness Act of 2010 set a statewide minimum age for Kindergarten but also created a new grade for kids whose birthdays come a few omnths after the cut-off. Implementation doesn’t appear to be mandatory, and our local district has no mention of it on its website, so I’m guessing it’s not rolling out here. I still need to read the notes of last Fall’s Board of Ed meetings to confirm that, though. Ah well.

I began outlining a slow curriculum for us to follow at home. Right now we’ll review some of the stuff we did over the fall, add a few new things, and continue complementing and expanding what he’s getting at preschool. I’m still thinking of pulling him out after his Pre-K graduation in part to avoid the boredom factor, and we’ll adjust as needed then.

So when 2012 meets a steroid-addled librarian in a bar

2012-01-02T04:54:45Z

So the first morning of the year found me at Kaiser Oakland’s internal medicine department, after I spent a stupid amount of time on the phone trying to get something to help me sleep through the coughing and the coughing and the coughing. No go. “The only thing that will do it is codeine cough syrup, but your’re pregnant, so no”. Um, but the OTC cough syrup is ALSO an FDA Catageory C drug. No. I haven’t slept in four days and cannot confidently say I could drive my child anywhere safely. No. DId I mention he’s four? And that I value my responsibility to parent the child I have more than my responsibility to gestate? No. Come in for an appointment.

So I did, exhausted and irked and wearing…products for adults with bladder problems, let’s just say. Because the coughing had gotten that bad. And they gave me inhalers. One for Albuterol, to take as needed, the other for Pulmicort, to take twice a day. The best part? Albuterol is a Category C drug, and Pulmicort may be linked to preterm labor. And according to the doctor on-call, they will “probably work” to control what she’s calling bronchitis. So this is really all about keeping me away from opiates because I’m pregnant, and not actually treating me with safe alternatives. GAH. The ‘roids appear to be working, but I’ve stayed inside all day and we’re running humidifiers.

I’d really like it to rain soon. This pretty weather is hell on my trachea.

I spent a goodly chunk of time reading semi-trashy fiction today and taking apart my calendar to better reflect how I spend my time and how I’d like to spend it. I also made a highly decent marinara from my stash of roasted and pureed tomatoes. This coming fall I’d like to process two cases, should we have a working kitchen. Yes, in the weird place known as Patrick’s mind, he wants to renovate the kitchen next year. with a newborn in the house. I told you all there was good reason for me to cut off all of my hair. Tomorrow Shay goes back to school, and I get to clean the bathroom, plan his at-home curriculum, and nap. Tuesday we’re doing some farmers market math and some alphabet review per his request, and a local field trip since I’m still feeling like crap. Haven’t decided where just yet, but we have a couple of good options.

Thirty-seven

2011-12-31T20:04:32Z

Well damn. Still sick and coughing, thus shitcanning any desire to sit in the car and go hiking or snowshoeing. House is a mess, and the dining room is unfinished. The cough has nothing to do with congestion any longer and it is now a reactive airway issue, meaning the more I cough, the worse it gets, and the more I cough. And pee. Seriously, why hasn’t done some sort of PSA telling kids to USE CONDOMS FOR FUCK’S SAKE, because that pregnant teen thing will be a lot less amusing when you wet your little maternity jeggings in hall between classes. Someone call Ellen Page.

The cats are doing all right - Agave got some sort of stomach thing and puked for about 48 hours before we got into the vet, who affirmed my suspicion of prolly somethin’ she done et, gave her her fluids and zofran and charged us sixty bucks for the whole visit, which was a nice switch from the time Faolan did the same thing and the vet tried to hard sell me $1500 in testing. She’s doing much better, eating and exploring, so I’m ruling out a belly of loose thread or tiny toy parts.

So, right, I’m older today. that’s not so bad. This is one of the better years as far as getting birthday wishes from friends. I usually get one or two, either early or late, but none on the day itself. So this is a nice change. Patrick and Seamus gave me some music and a t-shirt and tote bag from my favorite musician, a copy of West Side Story, and they’re off to pick up our library/craft shelving. I’m going to shower so I stop smelling like my grandmother in her dementia years and go for a walk. I’ve got a call in to the urgent care clinic at Kaiser so they can give me a scrip for codeine-based cough syrup so I can sleep. And if they don’t call me before things close, I’ll need whiskey tonight to sleep. I can’t sleep just with the hot honey and lemon drink - the sugar will keep me up. And I need to sleep - I’m exhausted and my ribs hurt.

Next year in Yosemite, damnit.

Christmas/Solstice updates

2011-12-27T17:42:58Z

Welcome back to the longer days and the post-consumption grind! I have risen from the dead, speaking of consumption, and am ready to clean and paint and get ready for playdates and company and the arrival of T/M. The worst thing about having a cold while pregnant is stress incontinence. Tell your teenagers.

Right, updates!

We did the chop-down again this year. Mom reminded me that it was our twenty-fifth year of doing this. Holy crap. I find I enjoy it most now as we taper our participation to our family’s quirks, which means heading home no later than six, and if we do that, we grab a fast dinner on the road. So we leave early and spend as much time as possible outside. It’s good. I wish Seamus’ friends were able to come, but the truth is that we started day-tripping and road-tripping with Seamus early on, and not too many of our parent friends have done that. So they see “Sonoma” and not the choose-your-own-adventure aspect of it. I suspect that will change as our kids get bigger and more capable of handling themselves on longer rides. Seamus may be a wild boy much of the time, but he is an excellent traveler.

He picked out the tree, which was a little thin, but we had enough lightweight ornaments to cover it. Our Flying Spaghetti Monster topper is MIA, which sucks. The kid made a haul between our replacng his wardrobe and the grandparents slinging gifts at him. We got him some bigger-boy books: D’Aulaire’s Greek Myths and Macaulay’s Built to Last, some more chalk pastels which he really enjoys and falls into, and I made him a custom-colored eight-pack of homemade playdough, which he got early so he’d get out of my hair while I hacked my way around the house.

But before Christmas, we all got an unexpected present.

I still look for Bandit on the shelter websites on occasion. I know the chances are she lived long enough to get nabbed are slim, and slimmer still that she was considered adoptable if they had, but I look for her anyway. I found a mugshot of a tabbly that looked familiar at the Alameda Animal Shelter and went down to check her out.

It wasn’t Bandit. But I met two cats that met our criteria: Over a year old but under three, playful, affectionate. One was owner-surrendered, the other a stray. I took phone pics, sent them to Patrick, we talked…and then I went back to fill out their paperwork before picking Shay up from school. They came home on the Solstice, one newly fixed, the other curious and ready to roam the house. Their shelter names were Inky and Agave, and Shay asked if we could keep those, so we have.

Inky is all black with one tiny white spot and green-yellow eyes. She’s carrying a bit of weight that I suspect will come off, as she is a big jumper and loves chasing toys and the laser pointer. She’s getting used to all of us, and before she was surrendered, I suspect she was in a one-cat household. She purrs and growls loudly, and is learning that we won’t let her be bullied…and won’t let her bully anyone else. She sleeps with Shay a lot.

Agave (it was “Agate” on some of the paperwork, and we’ll probably call her “Aggie”) is a tortoiseshell/tabby mix that actually resembles agate with brown and orange stripes. She’s younger and more kitten-like in features and behavior, but had at least one litter before arriving at the shelter. She slept forty-six of the first forty-eight hours she was here due to her spaying, and is now exploring and accepting affection. She is very quiet verbally but likes to play at night. She has claimed our bed as her primary sleeping space.

The best things about the new girls are the look on Patrick’s face when he pets them, and the sound of Seamus giggling when Inky goes after the laster pointer. Fifteen months without a cat is a long time for a writer-librarian household, apparently.

Pictures to come. I also need to write about our “babymoon” trip up the coast.