Marriage of heaven and hell

Know my idea of heaven? Being away from home, in either urban or rural setting, where my time is entirely my own and the only bottom I wipe is my own. Where I see friends of all sorts for eating and meandering and simply talking, all of which occurs without interruption except by consenting, pleasant adults. In this heaven there is no acting as full time Superego for my Id escapee; no addressing anybody’s sleeping, cleaning, reading, or playing needs but my own. There is intellectual stimulation and quiet in equal measure. There are deep breaths and completed thoughts completely bereft of whining, hitting, screeching, demanding, and throwing. In this heaven there is no Candyland.

Well, erumpent Id with messy bottom and multivalent sleep, cleanliness, reading, and play needs: I get all that heaven and more in one week. Hope the anticipation bodes well for your caretaking for the next seven days.

Hey, that’s not spam!

I think the WordPressspam filter might be biased against open dialogue and thoughtful comments. Because here are some of the things it caught today:

sKxthonjfwudyu, [url=http://mrexnftgfbqt.com/]mrexnftgfbqt[/url], [link=http://unfchazxfjub.gov/]unfchazxfjub[/link], http://pqekmqataalu.gov/
I think the spam filter might just be a prescriptivist linguist to single out this one, right? It’s just expressing the commenter’s heartfelt, if a bit non-English, feelings.

And, clearly, the spam filter doesn’t know about my multiple personality disorder, nor that my friends call me “dude” and “fella” and “bro” because it also split this comment away from the post for which the ideas are designed:
hi there dudes
my mother recently ran into an online store. the store is selling wide range of discounted label clothes. the shop is selling the items with almost 65% savings. my daughter really needs to get a pair before the get away but not sure that order will be brought in right on time. I am planning to order those prada shoes but not sure yet.
just urged to share with you bros.
thnx fellas.

And what kind of jingoistic, anti-capitalist spam filter can ignore the power of this:
I stand here today humbled by the task before dufus komas, grateful for the trust you have bestowed, mindful of the sacrifices borne by our cheap dufus komas. I thank President dufus power leveling for his service to buy dufus komas, as well as the generosity and cooperation he has shown throughout this transition.

It’s just the spam filter’s power structures and inherent prejudices trying to silence the voices of the powerless. Fight the spam filter.

And to you, gentle spambots, keep those nonsensical spam comments coming! You’re not wasting my time or limited brain space or anything by deluging my tiny little blog with crap. Really.

Back in the day

My mother tells very amusing anecdotes about my childhood, especially the bits about my precocious use of language. My favorite are the loud questions in the frozen food section of a South Dakota grocery store: “Mommy, does Jesus have a penis?” Intense thumb sucking while affirmative answer is processed. “Mommy, does Santa Claus have a penis?” That settles it. Had to cover any potential special cases to the general rule. You know.

One of her favorite stories is from just after Brother and my first briefing about reproductive biology, wherein I holler from the backyard, “Mommy, Brother is kicking me in the uterus. Make him stop!”

Well, now that someone actually is kicking me in the uterus, frequently, at totally unexpected moments, that shrill complaint seems…well…hilarious. Thinking of calling her today with this pronouncement:

Mooooooooom, someone is kicking me in my uterus. But it’s kind of cute, so don’t make it stop!

A warbly note

Look, blog, all I’m saying is that you’re pressure I don’t need.

I simply can’t be marginally interesting even half the time, let alone daily.

I’m busy with filling out papers and running all over town for physican’s reports and getting freaking painful PPD injections so I can hang at the preschool with my kid until he gets used to things; I have to polish a 25 page article then cut it to a 15-minute talk (good luck with that one, Captain Garrulous); I have to take a 32-page schlock-fest and make into a 40-page example of my best erudition and then into an awesome 25-page article; I have to plan holiday crapola and travel whosiewhatsis; and I have to figure out how to replace at least half of Peanut’s Halloween stash, because today it was simply magnetic, and the kid will notice. He pours out the whole stash on my bed every morning at dawn, with “mommy, you don’t have to get up, but can you help me pick my candy for today” because I stupidly put a two-piece a day limit and now he’s having this crappy candy for breakfast every day and will be until January. At least. Unless he notices the dearth of nougaty and caramely pieces (kind of sounds like an order of nuns) and calls me out, in which case there’s gonna be a serious meeting about how I’m the Mommy and if I’m gonna blog, I need to mainline sugar, else have nothing to say.

Or at least nothing to say so quickly. Or without proofreading.

Praise be cheeses

Oh, readers, the heavens are on my side today.

Peanut is being adorable.
Snickers, the baby, is being silly.
Long walk resulted in a happy child. Continuation of long walk resulted in errands being completed. Further continuation of long walk resulted in an hour of self-entertained playground operations and a coffee milkshake for me. Continuation of long walk resulted in observation of road work AND a tractor climb for Peanut. Yay water district workers.

Exceedingly long walk rendered me unable to rant at the lazy postal worker or the crappy drivers. And made me even more obsequious in my friendly waves to drivers who stop for us at crosswalks. You people rock.

Peanut has decided he loves spinach. Three meals a day he has raw spinach, with varying dipping sauces. I don’t recognize this kid, but he’ll be strong to the finich.

And Houston, we have preschool.

Paperwork underway, we may begin as early as next week.

Universe, shut the heck up! You’re more awesome than the quantum physicists had me believe!

Holy cow

Please don’t tell anyone who is more than 5 months pregnant, nor my two dear, sweet friends who carried and delivered twins that I said this, but great galloping ghosts, I don’t remember having a 5 month old fetus feeling so damned BIG. I swear I’m more uncomfortable now than I was at 8 months last time. As I said, though, don’t tell anyone whose uterus is, or has been, bigger than a cantaloupe. A really, really, big cantaloupe.

While we’re on that, why do they measure pregnancy milestones in fruit and vegetables? For heaven’s sake, telling me something is as long as a banana or a carrot is just plain stupid. Come with me to the store, you lameass lazy writers, and show me which banana. Do you mean that baby carrot or one of the eight thousand other sizes carrots come in? Why not tell me that my 9 inch fetus is about the length of 9 consecutive big lines on a ruler? Idiots.

The Brits understand. When I sought websites in proper English, hoping they might in terms other than produce, I found their measurements are way more reassuring. 360g?! Holy crow, that’s enormous, right?. 360 of anything is big. No wonder I feel like I swallowed a soccer ball. And 27cm? That’s…ah, hell, I wish we had converted to metric so I’d have some damned idea how long that is, but it sounds just huge.

But then, the Brits said this: “You’re probably feeling quite comfortable these days. This, in fact, may be the most enjoyable time in your pregnancy. ” Ah, man, f— you! Is this going to be the f— you trimester? Cuz I thought that was the 19 weeks of incessantly barfing and exhaustion. No? This is the f— you trimester? I’m not sure. I kind of remember the next one being the exact opposite of a picnic, but what do I know? I had forgotten about feeling that I could never, ever eat again after one almond.

Maybe it’s the eyebrows little Fetalanine just grew, or something, but I am just not large enough to accommodate any more growth.

Or explain jokes about phenylalanine. If you don’t get them, ask the Brits. They explain everything so well.

Fragile X

Time ran a piece last year on a wonderful, loving family pulled even closer together by Fragile X syndrome. The article is interesting in part because it shows how one astute physician can notice a pattern and push genetic disease research forward by huge leaps.

There’s a lot of recent information on this disease, and the research into Fragile X is at the forefront of our understanding of autism. Carriers of the genetic difference are also subject to a host of medical issues that trouble families who don’t even know they carry the gene.

Look into it. Get involved. Support research.

Super Happy Halloween

P: Happy Halloween!
Stranger with candy: Oh, what a great costume. Choose a piece of candy.
P: Can I have two?
Swc: Sure!
M: [silently] damn you, neighbor!
P: Thanks! Happy Halloween!
Swc: Bye.
P: Hope you have fun. Bye. I love you!

Just about died with joy at every single house. Cutest of all cute peas, he wanted to go up to the house by himself. He pushed the button, knocked twice, and stepped back, like each door were an elevator. He only told two people he loved them, because that last line is what he says to Dad every morning when he leaves and to anyone who calls and wants to talk to him on the phone.

So it was an awesome night. Much fun. One boy in spider jammies, vampire vest, mardi gras necklace, stuffed ghost tucked into vest, cowboy hat, and construction goggles.

Small beef: Neighbors, please, could *one* of you give out toys or play-dough or crayons or something instead of candy. Come on. One house with a dentist and toothbrush, maybe? One spider ring or yo-yo or plastic skeleton? Please?

Happy Halloween

P: [standing in doorway with blank look]
M: What do you say?
P: [whispers] Happy Halloween
M: [loudly, beaming] Yes, Happy Halloween.
P: [now ready for a full discussion with candy-wielding stranger] And Happy Mommy and Daddy Home Day. And Grandma’s coming, too.
Candy Stranger: Here you go. Happy Halloween.
P: Thank you.
M: Great job, bug.
P: Why they no say you welcome? Are they not nice?

sigh.

Happy Candy Day, everyone!

[cackling]

Elizabeth over at Bleakonomy amused me with this article about Disney admitting the Baby Einstein products are not educational, and may actually harm children’s development.

Get your refund information here. Unless your kid *is* a genius. In that case, enjoy your Disney and ignore me, because I’d be arguing that Jr.’s mental bandwidth is due to your stellar parenting and excellent genes not some lame gimick. Silly me.

Heck, let your kids play with or watch whatever you choose. But for heaven’s sake, let’s someone please tell those people who really believe that they will change their child’s life with a DVD that it’s marketing, not science.

And consider a pop on over to the Campaign for a Commerical-Free Childhood, where they support my refusal to show my kid anything that makes him want characters on his Band-Aids, shoes, or underpants. Why? Cuz I ain’t advertising their bullshit products on my kid. That’s why.

(Yup, Peanut is still getting movie day every Wed for one hour. Too late, AAP, you said age one when he was born and we held out that long. For a year (from age 1 to 2) he only got half an hour—once a week—and it was all Signing Time, which I personally found hugely educational and useful to his vocabulary, his signing, and his fascination with other children. He didn’t get any TV before age one, barring accidental restaurant exposure to organized sports (blech) and one afternoon when he napped in the same room that we watched the first half of Brokeback Mountain. Now *that*’s educational.)