Leery Polyp

Smells Like Toddler Spirit

Me: on toilet, suffering effects of frozen cookie dough combined with metformin dose. (And I'd do it again.)
Sophia: wandering about the apartment.

Sophia: Joey!
Me: Yes?
Sophia: (gleeful) Joey! I found your magical medicine!
Me: (imagines forgotten bottle of medication or Simple Green)
Me: (panics)
Me: (wipes hastily, hops with pants-bound knees to sound of triumphant tiny voice)

And what did I find? Sophia, perched atop my dresser, daubing rose perfume oil ALL OVER the place.

I was relieved. And very floral.

Juno. I Dunno.

Not that you were sitting around nervously fraying your dinner napkins waiting for me to weigh in on the subject. Not that I can speak with any authority of the subject of adoption, having gotten knocked up whilst in the throes of "just adopting" (ahahahahahaha! ha!) and therefore having been spared any of the real hard decisions or transitions, but here is a post by Kateri, in response to a post (or, more specifically, the comments on a post) by Cecily.

Disclosure: Kateri and Cecily are two of my favorite folks. Both are immensely forgiving and kind, as I have opportunity to know firsthand. But even if I didn't know that (read: even if I weren't occasionally a shitheel), I'd know they're both breathtakingly kickass writers. So go have a look-see.

PSA Monday

First: Boric acid is not recommended during pregnancy. Many have used it and lived to tell the tale, but I'm just sayin'.

Second: This, from Debbie at A Charmed Life:

"It's "Mommy Monday" over at A Charmed Life by Debbie in Escondido, California.  Today's post honors her own mother, who died two years ago today at the age of 53, of lung cancer.  In her memory, Debbie has started the Debra Angelo Leave No Mom Behind Fund through the LUNGevity Foundation, and is in training to run the Boulder Backroads Marathon to benefit lung cancer research.  She's asking for our help to get the word out.  Please visit her blog to hear more of her mom's story, or check out her fundraising page at http://events.lungevity.org/goto/leavenomombehind.

Third: Preparations for the new blog are proceeding apace (okay, a-very-slow-pace). Just so you know,  I'm not killing Leery Polyp -- just building on. But my focus has shifted since those heady early days of infertility and bitterness, and I figured that while this blog could stand as a memorial to Gonal-F: The Stickening, it was time to at least put in a window box or something.

So be watching. I promise to unveil while things still don't look right and all the links are funky. Whee!

WWTID?

As in, what would The Internets do?

Okay. Here's the situation. It's blustery, cold, wet, and snowing pretty hard outside. The dog scratches at the door and mills around frantically; this means we have about four minutes before we have puddles and/or piles to deal with. Sophia, meantime, is happily watching PBS in a ballerina costume. My efforts to get her half dressed and out the door are met with great resistance. We agree that she will put on a sweater and shoes, come downstairs with me, and sit on a sofa watching me through the window while I allow the dog to pee six feet from the front door. (We live in an apartment building with a lobby.)

Down we go, happy with our plan. As we approach the front door and Sophia is joyfully ensconced on a sofa, a random woman comes in the front door and, seeing me in my indoor clothes and Sophia in her getup, says, "You're not allowed outside without a coat on! Nobody is!" She says it in that I'm-pretending-I'm-serious-but -really-I'm-kidding-but-really-I'm-serious voice that adult passers-by like to use on the mothers of small children. Sophia, heavy into a new bout of stranger anxiety, bursts into tears and wails.

Meanwhile, the dog is pulling me towards the door. My attempts to comfort Sophia are to no avail.

So. Do I:

a) scoop up the 80% naked kid and haul her screaming out into the blizzard for 30 seconds so the dog can pee?

b) let her watch you screaming from behind the glass of the front door while you let the dog pee a mere four feet from the front door?

Click to find out what I did...

I Heart America

Today, in Target, I bought Sophia her preferred bribe, which is a Luna Bar. I know, I know -- the soy! The spray-on vitamins! We do what we do to get by.*

So after a goodly amount of wrangling I got us through the checkout line, and as I was paying, Sophia requested her treat. "Joey, I need my bar, Joey!" is what she actually said. (I wonder if people think I'm the nanny. She calls me Joey about 90% of the time now.)

I paid the nice lady and handed over the booty. Since there was nobody behind us, I smiled at the cashier, and took a second to actually unwrap the bar for Sophia, who flapped her hands in excitement and snarfed it down like that was her career.

"Wow, she likes that?" said the cashier, a woman in her mid-50s.

"Yep, she gets one every time we come here," I shrugged, hoping the woman wasn't about to give me a grandmotherly lecture on feeding chocolate-covered things to toddlers.

"That's great that you've got her started on natural things! So much healthier!" she said, smiling and shaking her head in amazement.

And I tried very hard to smile back sweetly without snorting as I pushed the cart to the in-store Starbucks. I could see her point -- hey, it wasn't a Bit-O-Honey served up with a Mountain Dew: Code Red chaser -- but the idea that something soaked in pyridoxine and cyanocobalamin, half-clad in "chocolaty coating," and flavored to taste like S'mores without any discernible marshmallows could be counted among the ranks of the raw almond and the broccoli tree was just so...U-S-A! U-S-A!

Ah, my people. I raise my organic corn dog to you. (Organic corn dog: more or less natural than a Luna Bar? Discuss!)

*Honestly I think they are a fine snack. Especially seeing as how last time I bought her a box of cookies.

Recipe Night

Ohhhhh preschool. You all have reassured me greatly. Now I just have to call and find out when, exactly, they can start her, and whether that will allow me to take a crapload of life sciences over the summer. Let us hope the answers are "May" and "If you really think that's a good idea..." I did get an A in my statistics class! So perhaps a summer of biology and chemistry is just the ticket.

So, other things. I am in the middle -- well, there really is no middle, is there? At least not 'til you've got to the end -- of an anovulatory cycle. Oh, how it reminds me of the halcyon days of untreated PCOS, where every day was an exercise in unremitting PMS symptoms, with a bloat that never deflated and a constant craving (ah-AAHHH! Constant craving...) for bananas, chocolate, and walnuts in combination. I cleaned out a pint of Chunky Monkey before re-taking the reins with some flourless no-added-sugar banana oatmeal cookies (good recipe, btw. I will share at the end). Lord, how I hate the anovulatory "cycle". Nothing to predict or hasten the next period, just have to wait 'til it comes around on the GIT-tar again. Sigh.

I am celebrating it with a yeast infection! Yay! The last one I had was in 2003, judging by the date on the bottle of boric acid I cracked earlier this eve. The bottle itself had once held Clomid. Which, you know, was totally going to make me pregnate with twins ahahahahAHAHAHAHAHAHA. I drew a skull and crossbones on it when I filled it with homemade boric acid capsules. Yeast infection. What the fuck.

But! It does tell me something about my hormones, which may be returning to a more something-or-other state. I hesitate to make the call (like the midpoint of an eggless cycle, it's only visible in the rearview mirror for some of us), but I think...I think...Sophia might have weaned. I don't remember the last time she nursed! And my milk seems to be morphing back into colostrum!

Anyway. You need recipes. I know you do. Eat cookies, cure a yeast infection. In two separate steps, sadly.

Preschool, Post-Freak

Before we attend to the task at hand, I wish to share the happy news that Target, or at least a Target, has replaced its sad little bagged-up nursing bra stand (which grew emptier and more pathetic as they discontinued the line) with a ginormous wall of nursing bras, many of the cozy-cottony variety and all reasonably attractive, affordable, and available in black. Seriously, I was agog. I mean, that's more than I found in department stores as a whole, ever, and it's a more attractive and way cheaper selection than any of the Maternity Mafia (you know, Motherhood, Mimi, Pea in the Pod) offer. Plus you can actually try them on, oh my god.

Whew.

Now, preschool. I remember preschool, and before that, Mom's Day Out, which was run by a gaggle of nice old Methodist ladies and which was apparently the end point for outdated wallpaper sample books, judging by the surviving crafts shoved into my baby book. A Mother's Day card, in an unappetizing 1960's golden green kitchen print; a butterfly with pipe-cleaner antennae and wings of synthetic taupe grasscloth. Sadder wings were never seen. I weep for you, flightless butterfly. Anyway, I loved it and called it "Mom Stay Out," and generally enjoyed myself playing dinosaurs with the older boys and prickling in silent embarrassment when my best friend burst into wails upon being dropped off. I mean, everyone knew she was my friend! Her behavior was reflecting badly upon me! (Yes, I thought like that as a three-year-old. Really.)

Preschool itself was an autoharp wonderland presided over by an infinitely kind woman who taught us how to tie, read, and sing "This Land is Your Land." She also held annual campouts in her backyard (one night for boys, one for girls) and had an end-of-year swimming party. (Yeah, it was the seventies. Different times, Jack.) In all, I remember it pretty well, and it was a good, good time. (Probably for my mother, too, who produced my sister Gretchen when I was about 2 1/2, and who was all too glad to Stay Out for a bit.)

Thanks to good fortune and good friends, we've been gradually introducing Sophia to time away from family caregivers. Judging by her eagerness to escape my clutches for the greener pastures of Awesome Babysitter and Beloved Neighbor Children, the transition has not been a traumatic one. "Mama," she informed me this morning as we packed up to go babysit for Beloved Neighbor Children, "I want to go to Polly and Jack and Menita's house, and you to go away!" Big smile.

"Well, sweetie, today it's my job to take care of everybody," I told her. Her face fell, and she began to cry. Sigh. When she was a baby, I became jealous of the fishy mobile, because she smiled at it and not me. Now, I welcome the words "I want you to go away and I will not call for you!" I feel no pangs of sadness, nor do I feel guilt.

I do, however, feel a mild unease at the prospect of abandoning her in a sea of rhinovirus-oozing biters who will whomp her with wooden airplanes*. I know her, and when she's the slightest bit uncomfortable she freezes and allows any and all whomping to continue unprotested. When I leave her with the neighbors or their sitter, I know there are no more than three (generally pretty reasonable -- stop laughing, Menita) toddlers per adult, and they're all kind of used to each other, and the adult cares, and...yeah.

Of course we found a good preschool; of course all the adults (and there were plenty) seemed to genuinely love the kids, and it's well-regarded, and if I wanted to I could come spend every day there with Sophia, yosh yosh yosh (as Sophia says). What I don't like is that they only do a 5-day program -- no Tuesday-Thursday option. So it's only three hours a day, but it's every day. It seems like an awful lot for such a tiny person! Argh, but she'll be three in August, and she won't start until June or July...I don't know. There's really no other way to get in all the courses I need to take. And, man, while I want to homeschool a bigger kid, I have zero problem with preschool (barring the creepy college-prep kind), practically or philosophically.

So. You. Dear internets. How have you dealt with this? How will you deal with it? Success stories? Horror stories? I would love to know.

*Not your child, of course. 

Pitcher Pages

First, the sweater I made for Sean. Pattern is Vanille by bluealvarez.com. Beautifully done pattern, by the way! Easy to knit -- way easier than Cherie Amour (slower going stitch-by-stitch, but I never had to back up five rows of lace or RIP THE DAMN THING THREE TIMES). A great first sweater, I think. I am very proud. <swells with pride> I am also delighted that the shadow in the pic makes Sean look like he has a round helmet for hair, a la Nancy.

More helmety goodness.

Second, Sophia's artwork: Iconic Face #37.

And #41.

And #93.  She makes these everywhere. She's awesome.

 

In case you haven't gotten enough: Me. And Sophia. All very tired, yet hyperalert...

And finally: My detractors, vindicated!

What's that earsplitting honking sound? It's the EVERYTHING'S OKAY ALARM!

Mushaboom

I think Sean is teaching Sophia to play Super Mario Brothers (old school), which she calls "the Mushaboom game," in the next room. I have more pressing things on my mind (besides working on design for the new blog! woo!).

Before the promised posts, let me just ask you this:

If you were going to get some version of this tattooed on your body, would you convert it into an armband, or just kind of wrap the original design around your upper arm? (By which I mean, maintaining vertical orientation, just wrapping the design around so that the roots on the bottom almost touch on the inside of your arm.)

Tell me, tell me, tell me true...

Happy Blogiversary to MEEEEEE

Four years! Woo!

And thanks to an erratic/boring posting schedule, I have probably forced my readership down to where it was four years ago. Cheers to all you loyal diehards, happy new year, and here is what to expect in the coming days:

-Somebody Sent Me the Sears Vaccine Book, and I Tell You What I Think About It
-Preschool: To Agonize or Not? Also, What If Some Other Kid Whacks Mine in the Head?
-I Made a Sweater, Again (with pictures!)
-Sophia Draws Faces (more pics)
-Recipes for Chard, Cabbage, and Jerusalem Artichokes (That Are Awesome)
-I Judge Myself Harshly (Yet Fairly) in the Parenting Realm and Offer You Opportunity to Do Same

-And try my new Countdown to the Apocalypse Ticker, available in Mayan Calendar and Global Warming! (Kidding. Really. Really, really kidding here.)