And now I'm scared of big box furniture stores.

Do you remember Eric? My Internet boyfriend in publishing? The one who sends me books that I read and then send you all flocking to Amazon to purchase? Well, he struck again.

This time he sent me one that has prevented a decent night's sleep since I finished it. Horrorstor by Grady Hendrix is a strange mix of Ikea knock-off catalog, workplace satire, and haunted house ghost story.

According to the Quirk Books website, "Something strange is happening at the Cuyahoga location of Orsk, the all-American furniture superstore in Scandinavian drag whose forward-thinking slogan promises 'a better life for everyone.' Each morning, employes arrive to find broken Kjerring bookshelves, shattered Glans glassware, and vandalized Liripip wardrobes- clearly, someone or something is up to no good. To unravel the mystery, five employees are to spend a long dusk-till-dawn shift at the store, unaware of the darkness that awaits them."

The day it came in the mail I had to have my eyes dilated so I only got through about 1 chapter before having to give up what with all the light and movement and me looking like something out of a Japanese horror movie. Now I think it may have been a premonition.

This is one of those books that I really wanted to quit reading but couldn't. From the first, the layout of the catalog/novel intrigued me. Shopping while reading? Yes, please. But flipping through the illustrations quickly left me feeling a bit uneasy. Something just wasn't right, so I dove in and couldn't put it down. Heebie-jeebies abounded. And to be entirely honest there were about 2 pages I had to skim to keep from gagging (just remembering those pages makes my gorge rise).

The setting was meticulously mapped out (including an actual map which was a godsend for people visually inclined like yours truly). The characters were all relatable if often irritating- much like the people we all work with. The story was intriguing and unsettling. The illustrations, doubly so. The end result? I have never and now will never set foot in an Ikea (or Orsk, should they ever come into actual existence).

While Horrostor is available from Amazon for your e-reader, I highly suggest picking this one up in the physical form. The book hits shelves on September 23rd but is available for pre-order now.

To Explore Strange New Places (TMI)

I'm having strange places explored on Monday.  Places no man has gone before.

Remember that lovely bout with colitis I had a few months back?  The one that landed me in the hospital for 4 days?  The one that ruined my all too brief weekend visit with Art?  The one that made me miss my kids showing their Rabbits at 4-H fair & seeing them auction off their bunnies?  Yeah, that one.  Well, that bout has made my doctor decide he really needs to get a good look at the entire length of my large intestine.

When I was in the hospital Doc did a Flexible Sigmoidoscopy.  That only took him about 1/4 of the way through my colon and the results were inconclusive.  Nothing really showed him why I was writhing in pain and why my colon lit up like a Christmas tree on the CT scan.  The most intense pain was located in my Ascending Colon and he's been itching to get in there and get a good look at it ever since.  Unfortunately the Ascending Colon is well past the quarter point of the lower intestine.

Lucky me, Monday is the day he's picked to take peek at my innards.

It's not the colonoscopy that worries me.  I'll be unconscious.  And even if I'm not, one of the medications they give you has an amnesic effect meaning I won't remember anything even if I'm not entirely asleep.  I'm so very OK with all of that.

What I've worked myself into a tizzy about is the day before prep.  The idea of ingesting that much of any type of laxative in that amount of time is not something I look forward to....especially when Harvard Health says, "you’re going to be experiencing high-volume, high-velocity diarrhea." 

So, any prayers would be appreciated not only for a good outcome of the test, but for an easy prep the day before. 

Not that going to the hospital was all bad.

I've joked (many times) that a stay in the hospital is like a mini-vacation for mom.  That was way back in the day when the only hospital stays I'd had had been for bringing more babies into this world.  The two I've had this summer have been much less fun rewarding.  Yes, there's been a comparable amount of pain, but there have been no blue eyed, fuzzy headed, tiny people to bring home with me at the end of the hospital stay.  No Dreft scented blankets and Johnson & Johnson's baby washed bundles. Having an infected organ removed is not nearly as exciting as giving birth.

And colitis really sucks.  Bad.

This past hospitalization was the longest of my medical career thus far.  I'm hoping it holds that place of honor for the rest of my life, but I'm a realist and know that there are quite possibly more stays in my future.  I'm praying it's a distant future.

But once the Toradol was freely flowing and I was no longer in danger of passing out due to dehydration, it wasn't too bad.  Well, there was the whole we're-going-to-half-starve-you thing, but even that was bearable just as long as the pain was kept at bay....and at bay it was.  I did have a rather entertaining neighbor (from here on known as Old Joe because I don't know what his name really is) when I was lounging about starving and hopped up on pain killers.

The first night, they were really concerned about my well being.  That means they woke me up every 76 seconds to make sure I wasn't dead.  OK, so maybe it was just that they checked my vitals every 2 hours, and I had to pee at least once in between each check (seriously, boluses just before bed time are not good on the deep sleeper's bladder)....but it felt like every 76 seconds.

I woke up a little after 6 am in need of the toilet, but really wanted to roll back over to sleep some more.  Old Joe had other plans.  Plans that included screaming, "NURSE!  NURSE!  NURSE!" while repeatedly hitting his call button.  (Incidentally his nurse was my cousin Rachie.)  He informed her he was claustrophobic and could not be left in a room with the door shut.  She informed him she had to shut his door because he wouldn't quit screaming and waking up the entire floor.  "It's 6:30.  They've slept long enough," he told her.  Rachie tried to explain that not everyone sleeps well in the hospital.  Apparently, Old Joe hadn't slept at all.  Luckily, I tossed my Zune in my purse before leaving for the hospital, so my noise canceling ear buds kept me from hearing him all night.

Rachie told me he'd been hollering at her all night and every time she stepped out of his door he hit his call button immediately.

That day my nurse was a young man named Blake.  Blake had brown, softly curling hair and a scruffy beard.  He may have been 22 year old, but only just.  Old Joe did not like Blake.  In fact, Old Joe very quickly dubbed Blake 'al-Qaeda' presumably because of the dark(ish) curly(ish) hair.  He called Blake 'al-Qaeda' all day long.  Very loudly.  In all reality, Blake looked about as Middle Eastern as I do...which is not very for those of you who've never seen me.

Around 8 or 9 o'clock, Old Joe really got his knickers in a twist.  "WARNING!  WARNING!  AL-QAEDA!  AL-QAEDA! WARNING!  WARNING!  AL-QAEDA! AL-QAEDA!"  He must have repeated it on and off for nearly 20 minutes at the top of his lungs. Every time Blake walked into or even past his open door, Old Joe screamed. I asked Blake if he was OK and he just laughed.  Apparently Joe threatened to beat Blake up.  Eventually the nurses told Joe if he didn't shut it, he couldn't see his doctor that day.  A totally empty threat, but it worked for a time.

When the effectiveness of the empty threat wore off (around lunch time), Old Joe started singing.  I had heard him singing a bit through the morning, but could never make out anything past a bit of melody and some mumbled lyrics.  After Blake checked on me, something changed down the hall. I discovered Old Joe has a penchant for old Spirituals/Gospel Music.  He was belting out Amen at the top of his lungs.  I'm familiar with it because Daddy was in a men's choir in college and I grew up listening to his albums.  When Old Joe started in with the Amens, I immediately called Daddy and told him I was fighting the temptation to sing back the descant of the song.  Daddy and Mama thought I should do it and then Joe and I could keep the entire floor entertained, but my nurses didn't agree.  Joe didn't need any encouragement.

Occasionally over the course of the next day or two, Joe would get in an uproar over something or he'd serenade us with random songs, but for the most part he was fairly quite.

After that the hospital was boring....but I had cable and Toradol (not sure if I've mentioned the Toradol), so I survived.  I hope Old Joe did, too.

Why Mary Kay Letourneau really was crazy.

Let's get past the whole "she was his teacher, he was a minor, she was married" stuff and get right to the heart of the matter.

13 year old boys are gross.

They're gangly.

They're loud.

They're overly self-centered.

They're obnoxious.

And they smell.....really bad.

Now I realize that not all 13 year old boys are like this, but in all the odds are greater that they fit this bill than the idea of a "datable" man to any grown woman.  I don't see how 13 year old girls can abide them.

Why am I on this strange train of thought?

I had to work today & was watching the Junior High boys file through the lunch line.  A few weeks ago I watched an episode of Criminal Minds about a "Letourneau" situation and it popped into my sleep deprived brain after scooping my 275th helping of peaches and handing it to the 14th 8th grade boy in a row who looked like he hadn't bathed in 2 days.

The strangeness that is me thought, "What about these overgrown, stinky things says, 'I'll leave my husband and four children and give up my career and eventually go to jail for one of them'?"

Please tell me I'm not the only one who's brain goes off on random tangents like this.

Please.

And I thought the FarmHands were Peculiar.

You may remember a few months back my dear friend Eric from Quirk Books sent me a teaser copy of the first few chapters of a new novel. I devoured the initial chapters in one setting & was horribly disappointed to be left hanging in literary purgatory awaiting the release of said novel. Well, guess what came in the mail this week! Go ahead, guess. Any ideas? Anyone? OK, fine. I'll tell you (spoil sports).

Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children by Ransom Rigg





*sigh*

Something you may not know about me: I'm a sucker for old photographs. Really old photographs. The older, the better. And Miss Peregrine was a bit of a photofile (is that even a word?).


"A mysterious island. An abandoned orphanage. A strange collection of very peculiar photographs."


I've seen this book labeled a children's book, but I can tell you it is not one I'd share with the FarmHands unless I was up for a week of nightmares & sleepless children. It's not a terrifying book, but I'm sure my children are not quite ready for this:



Nor am I ready to explain the phrase "some bird that gives him a total ornithology boner," to them. I'd put it firmly in the teen/young adult category. But that doesn't mean a 35 year old mom of 4 cannot get sucked in wholeheartedly.


Jacob Portman's life is suddenly split in half- Before and After. Before being the ordinary life he lived in Florida with his parents and After being his search for the truth behind his grandfather's stories. Stories full of monsters, levitating girls, invisible boys, and caretaker birds.


The photographs are real (some from the author's own collection), the story thrilling, and the characters engaging. It all meshes together beautifully in a book unlike any I've ever read before. Oh, and have I mentioned the movie rights have been sold? But trust me, don't wait for the film. Read the book.


Ransom Rigg has officially tingled my spine and made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I cannot wait to see what he comes up with next! (And his name is Ransom. How cool is that?!)

This is what the Internet will do to you if left unattended.

On the radio this morning I heard an interview with Erica Jong, an author & feminist currently in the press for her article in the WSJ. In her article she claims that attachment parenting can be detrimental to society and parents both. I can't disagree with everything in her article even though I like the idea of attachment parenting. I think it's a societal problem more than a problem with a certain philosophy of parenting.



As parents (most especially as mothers) we fall into the trap of thinking there is only one right way to parent our children. We must breast feed. We must be SAHMs. We must wear our babies in a sling and co-sleep until they start third grade. And if anyone argues with us or chooses to raise their child in a vastly different way, we get very upset. We take it as a personal affront to our method of parenting.



One thing I have learned having four children in 6 years is that each child is different. Each parent is different. No one way is the right way to raise a child. Husband and I each have very different styles of parenting. Each of our children must be parented in a vastly different way. I think most rational people would agree with this idea and yet we tear into each other like vultures at the first sign of dissension.




Why is this? Is it guilt? Are we so insecure in our own choices that if someone disagrees with how we parent that we immediately tear them down?




While reading Ms. Jong's article I stumbled upon the phrase Baby Farming. I had an idea of what was meant by it, but I wasn't sure. Wikipedia filled me in on the details. Baby Farming was a late Victorian Era practice where upper class women or unmarried mothers would send their babies out to be raised by someone else for a fee. Unfortunately the amount of money given the foster mothers was often too little to actually raise a child on. The babies of unwed mothers were often sold or given away. In some cases, the babies were left to die with no one the wiser while the foster mothers collected more babies and more money.



As I was looking up information on Baby Farming, I came across something called an Uncyclopedia and this article (you click, I'll wait here.........done? OK, on with the blog). Yeah, that's right. An entire Wikipedia-esque article about the farming of infants as a food source. Forget veal, this is baby eating. Oy. Someone out there has entirely too much time on their hands....



And you thought all my Jane Austen Zombie posts were bad. Admit it, you had no clue where this one was going.

It's as if they were thinking of me.

The universe is conspiring to feed my love of all things Zombie.

First of all, A&E has a new show called The Walking Dead that is entirely about the Zombie Apocalypse. It's about a Georgian police officer who wakes up from a coma to find that while he was sleeping, the plague of the undead has been unleashed on Earth. His wife and son are gone along with 90% of the population of the small town he's living in. The rest of the population has turned into Walkers or Geeks depending on who you ask. I'm loving it. I think I need to find the past issues of the graphic novel it's based on.

Last weekend, when my family came to visit, Princess brought me a magnetic ribbon for my van. It's black with red trim & reminds everyone to Support Zombies. I tried to shrink the picture, but it didn't want to be minimized. Apparently the lack of Zombie support is a big problem.

Today, when Husband brought in the mail there was a cream colored envelope with my name printed on the front. The return address was in Philadelphia. I was puzzled. I cannot think of anyone I know living in Philadelphia who would be sending me a letter.

Much to my surprise, it was a lovely note from one Miss Elizabeth Bennet, the heroin of Pride & Prejudice & Zombies (yes, I know she was in a book prior to P&P&Z, but if I can get the note to load you'll see why I make this distinction.

In the note, Miss Bennet was kind enough to warn me of the horde of reanimated corpses overrunning her beloved England. She also informed me of her latest purchase- a Macintosh computer with which she is now keeping up a digital correspondence.

This evening I've learned that not only do Elizabeth, Jane, and Lydia Bennet have their own Facebook pages, but so do their parents and love interests...including the insipid Mr.Wickham. Mrs. Bennet has started her own blog in order to share her tips on raising marriageable daughters in such a time as this. Lizzy has an Etsy shop and Lydia has joined a dating web site. If you're interested in finding their links, you can find them all collected at www.quirkclassics.com/zombies .

For now, I will leave you all to ponder your survival tactics for the coming Zombie apocalypse while I read up on the lives of the Bennets and other families living in Hertfordshire amongst the Unmentionable Hoard.

Can someone please explain this to me?

Yeah, so I wasn't really gone. I'm not completely sure I'm back, though. We shall see.

Until I make up my mind about this whole blogging sabbatical, I need to run something by the general public.

Friday I was at Wal-Mart as per usual. Bitsy & I had to make a second quick trip through the store to pick up a few things I forgot. As we reached the Express Counter, there was a new clerk coming in to take the current clerk's place so she could take her lunch break.

The conversation went like this:
Clerk #2- Are you ready for your break?
Clerk #1- Yes. Are you taking my place?
Clerk #2- Yup. When ever you're ready?
Clerk #1- Alright, I'm hungry. It's all yours. (She logs out of the register & gathers her things.)
Clerk #2- What did you bring in your lunch?
Clerk #1- A peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Clerk #2- Yum!! That sounds good!! Enjoy! (She was very adamant about how good that sandwich sounded.)
Clerk #1- Thanks. See you in a few.
Clerk #2- (watching #1 walk away, she turns to me) Yeah, that doesn't really sound good at all.

What?! I cannot imagine that Clerk #1 would have been in anyway offended if Clerk #2 hadn't said anything about her choice of sandwich. She wasn't awaiting #2's approval. She didn't ask #2's opinion. She sure wasn't offering her a bite.

Clerk #2 could have said, "Enjoy your sandwich," or, "Have a good break," or even, "Oh, I don't like peanut butter." Or she could have skipped her aside to me. I didn't ask. I didn't care. I had no part in the conversation at all. Why out herself in a lie to a total stranger?

I do not understand any of what transpired.

I kid you not.

Friday was Civil War Day at school. BabyGirl asked me to volunteer so I went and helped with the games. I spent all day helping another mom corral 3rd, 4th, and 5th graders while teaching them to play blind man's bluff and button, button, who's got the button?

One boy from another school showed up in Confederate officer dress uniform complete with brass colored buttons. He was pretty proud of himself. I remarked on his costume & our conversation when something like this:

Me- Wow. That's a cool uniform you've got on. Where did you get it?
Boy- We ordered it.
Me- Well, I really like it.
(brief pause)
Boy- You wanna' smell my buttons?
Me- Excuse me?
Boy- Do you want to smell my buttons?
Me- Um...
Boy #2- (pops out behind his buddy) Smell them! They smell like bat guano!
Me- What?!
Boy #2- Really, they smell like bat guano!
Boy- Yeah, they do.
Me- Thanks, but I think I'll pass.

I couldn't make this up if I tried.

On today's Memoirs: Mini-Van Adultry. What's your stance?

There has been a loss & a new addition to the Farm Family. Hank, Husband's Silverado, has gone to live with another, smaller family...as soon as the dealership finds one for him. And Babe has come to take his place.

Hank had transmission problems earlier in the year and Husband has been suspicious of Hank's intentions since. Going anywhere in Hank means finding a baby sitter, so that's a mark against him. So Hank lost his place of honor. Personally, I had nothing against him, but he wasn't My Truck.

Husband picked out Babe all by himself on Tuesday while I was getting the FarmHands ready to drive 80 minutes to see a doctor for 3 minutes and turn around and drive home. Yesterday, he took me to meet her, sign her papers and bring her home.

It was love at first sight.

I love Babe. I love her shiny blue exterior. I love her dual sliding power doors. I love her touch screen media center (although I think I need a class on how to use it). I love her Fold and Go seats. I love, love, love her Sirius XM radio. The FarmHands (and by association, I) love her dual flip down DVD players. In fact, the only thing (thus far) that I do not love about her is the lack of auto headlights (that's just weird...she has a 30 GB hard drive but manual headlights).


But part of me feels horribly guilty because we seem to be leaving Mammy out in the dust...literally. I drove her into town today to register the FarmHands for school. I was all alone in her massive interior sans car seats. The kids' CD wallet has been taken out of her door & is about to be stashed away in Babe's interior. The kids' blankets are no longer tucked safely under her seats but are instead, hidden away in Babe's Fold & Go storage bins. She is an empty shell. And I'm pretty sure she knows why.

I remember just how much in love with Mammy I was in the beginning. She was our protector. She was our home on wheels as it were. And now we have demoted her to Driving-Dad-to-Work mode and parked her in the space farthest from the house so Babe can be away from the acorns that will be falling very soon.
I'm cheating on my first mini-van love with a new, younger, fancier version of her. Poor Mammy has to sit in the drive way & watch. I still love her. Unfortunately, she doesn't ride quite as smooth as Babe and I have children prone to motion sickness (not to mention the Pimp-My-Ride aspects of Babe).

I hope she can find it in her internal combustion heart to forgive me and continue to serve us well...even if she has to sleep next to that flashy floozy every night.

It's Bitsy's world. We're just visiting.

I wandered out of my bedroom this morning to a rather interesting sight. Bitsy was standing in a kitchen chair with her night gown hiked up around her waist, her panties around her knees, wearing red cowboy boots, and shouting, "Me Peed! Me Pooped! Me Peed! Me Pooped!" For a panicked moment, I though she had used the kitchen chair as a toilet. Thankfully that was not the case. She had used the potty, then gone looking for grown-up help before being distracted by the pictures her brothers were coloring at the table.

Bitsy has a new best friend. Her name is Neene. She goes to Bitsy's pre-school (Bitsy is not in school...she takes the big kids to school most mornings with her daddy & refers to it as "go to pre-school"). She's as big as BabyGirl. She's a girl, but she looks like a boy. She has long pink hair & is just "a baby bit pretty," but mostly is not pretty. She's " baby bit bad," too.

Oh, and she's imaginary. She doesn't have a mom or dad & she lives at the school. Bitsy calls her on an old cordless phone I gave her to play with. When the big kids ask her a question & she doesn't want to give them a straight answer, she blames Neene.

Confessions of an undead nature

I don't like horror movies. Thrillers are OK sometimes. Scary movies don't bother me too much. Blood, guts, & terror just don't do it for me. The trailers for any one of the 18 Saw movies make me ill. I could never, ever sit through the Exorcist. I Am Legend gave me nightmares.

I still vividly remember the first "scary" movie I ever saw. The Lost Boys. I was in grade school. My uncles took my cousins & me to the video store to pick movies out. They all voted against me & we came home with House 2, The Howling, and The Lost Boys. I'm pretty sure I voted for something more like Short Circuit. Gremlins was as close to scary as I got in those days.

For three days after watching The Lost Boys, my dreams featured a soundtrack by The Doors.

But recently I've discovered a new genre of horror movies that really floats my boat. The Zombie movie. Now I haven't seen many, but the ones I've seen have fascinated me (all 3 Resident Evil movies, Shaun of the Dead, Zombieland). They're so funny. They make me wonder if film makers really believe these movies to be frightening. Sure, I jump a bit when a Zombie comes shooting out of an empty bathroom stall & tries to eat some unsuspecting high schooler, but then I double over with laughter. Was this their point?

I blame it all on Quirk Classics & their book Pride and Prejudice and Zombies (and it's upcoming prequel!!!!) and my brother's friends and their online forum. One of Bubba's friends raised "fact" that the zombie Apocalypse is nigh at hand. This lead to a rather interesting discussion about strategies & plans. Oddly (or not) Bubba has put a great deal of thought into how he is going to survive....so maybe I'm just watching these movies in preparation.

Rule #2: Double Tap.

What do you do when you'be been betrayed?

Specifically, what do you do when you've been betrayed by your allergy medicine? Do you break up? Decide you're better off as Just Friends? Get counseling? Scream & curse until it feels as badly about the mess as you do? Get drunk with your best girl friend & talk about how pathetically useless your allergy medicine is?

Once upon a time I was a Benadryl girl. I'm not sure it ever really gave me relief, but boy did I sleep good...as long as I didn't take too much. If I over did it, I'd spend the nights pacing the floor, sniffling, and wishing I'd been more careful.

After Husband & I were married, I had the allergy attack to end all allergy attacks. It resulted in a round of steroids and scripts for Flonase & Claratin (remember way back when you couldn't get it OTC?). QM warned me against the steroids, but that was a hot & fast love affair. I could do anything as long as I still had a box of tissues close at hand. I still sniffed & snuffed, but I was up for hopping in a less-than-sea-worthy little boat & allowing Husband to row us out to the middle of a slimy little pond when the water couldn't have been much more than 50 degrees. Those steroids made me feel good (Please, don't think I'm advocating 'roid use!! No, no, no...I'm a Just Say No generation girl....avoid the 'roid, y'all!), and the Claratin knocked my hay fever flat on it's itchy behind.

After a few years, my love affair with Claratin dimmed a bit. After it sold out & went OTC, it still helped out a bit, but it wasn't the passionate advocate for my nasal health it once had been. Claratin became a fair weather friend. I wasn't happy. I wondered if it loved me less because it was suddenly being loved by others.

And then...then...then...along came Zyrtec. Ah, Zyrtech. The love of my allergy driven life, OTC or not. We were soul mates. At the first sign of itching, sneezing, or stuffiness, I'd run for my medicine cabinet where Zyrtech waited in it's blister pouch of bliss. I'd pop one in my mouth, then run off to meet the day. Without fail, relief was on it's way. The honeymoon was a long one....or so I thought.

Recently I've begun to have my doubts. It doesn't seem as happy to see me as it once did. The relief is slower coming. Some days, like today for example, the relief never truly gets here.

So I ask, is my allergy medicine over me? Should I fight for it, or move on? What's a sneezing girl to do?

How to eat fried squirrel.

First of all, you must have strong teeth. Very strong teeth. At least if I'm the one cooking it.

Sunday afternoon, I took the boys & Bitsy to Uncle E's on the 4 wheeler so the boys could play with J & Bitsy could scrap book with Beffie & Ray-ray. Bitsy is beginning a lovely collection of scrapbooked pages on her bedroom wall. The girls set her up with all their left overs & help her with her art work. She's very proud of it all.

By the time she was finished & we headed home, Husband & BabyGirl were no where to be found. I had the ATV and both vehicles were still in the drive, so I knew they hadn't gone far. I figured they were at Big BIL's playing with the kids, but I figured wrong. They were squirrel hunting.

They came home empty handed; Husband said it was like walking through the woods with a freight train. The boys were broken hearted because they didn't get to go, so Husband promised to take them at a later date. I voted for one kid at a time...and won (vote is too mild a word in reality).

Yesterday Husband took B.B. out & they came home successful. I was informed that I was to cook the squirrel for dinner last night, and Husband & B.B. took it out to skin & clean it. At one point my son was running around the yard with squirrel feet in his hands.

Having no clue what to do with it, I dredged the furry little thing in flour & fried it up. I think in my desire to avoid food poisoning, I over cooked Rocky. It was tougher than shoe leather. Somehow the boys prevailed & ate half the squirrel between them. BabyGirl & I were unimpressed & Bitsy gnawed on bones excitedly jabbering about her squirrel & Daddy's gun.

So to all you fuzzy little blog reading cuties (of which I'm sure I have a huge following), avoid our house like the plague, or you too will be fried up & served to salivating FarmHands.

How to temporarily traumatize a toddler with the help of Netflix & The Discovery Channel

So by now you all know I am a bit obsessed with my Netflix Que. I have titles saved that haven't even hit theaters yet. Even a few that are still in the filming stages. I'm a geek. One such title that has been waiting in Netflix limbo for a few months was the latest season of Dirty Jobs with Mike Rowe.

I love Mike Rowe (not in the I'd leave my husband for him kind of way, more in the I'd let him run around my farm & chase my livestock while I watch from my hammock kind of way). I love watching him attempt to do jobs it took people years to master after a few minutes of instruction. I love to watch him climb into odd, cramped places & clean things I never knew existed. I'm often sickened by what he has to do & frequently have to turn away from the television lest I begin gagging, but still, I love it. It's one of the things I've missed most since we canceled the satellite service.

The newest collection came off the wait list recently & I bumped them up to the top of my Que P.D.Q. (ha) So today, after taking B.B. to a Pre-K round up, coming home, making lunch, eating, scheduling oil changes for both vehicles, and checking my email, I snuggled up with a sleepy Bitsy to watch the Dairy Farm Midwife episode of Dirty Jobs. We live on a farm. She's going to see this eventually.

Bitsy was ecstatic to see all the "Moo's" on TV. She jumped up, ran full tilt at the television, and started pointing & yelling, "Moo! Moo! Moo!" I quickly snatched her away before she jammed her grubby little digit into my new LCD screen, and deposited us back in the recliner. All was happy in the land of Bitsy & DVD cattle until....the miracle of birth.

The poor heifer was laid out in the straw laboring away & bellering at the top of her bovine lungs. Bitsy was a bit confused but still intrigued. Then I told her to watch because they were going to get a baby cow out of the mommy cow's belly. About that time there was a clear shot of the back end of the heifer complete with little hooves pointing out. Bitsy's eyes got the size of saucers. Then there was a nose & a long pink tongue. Those same eyes nearly bugged out of her little head. The mama cow bellered once more & Bitsy lost it. Her lips started puckering. Her chin gave a decided quiver. Her big blue eyes filled up with tears & my baby started bawling right along with that mama cow.

I'm not sure what she was thinking, but what ever it was, it was not good. Bitsy sobbed & sobbed, but would not turn away from the carnage of calving on the TV. I held her tight & reassured her that the baby would be out soon & the mama would be just fine. I'm not sure she believed me until Mike Rowe (Bitsy's new hero) grabbed the calf by the legs & gave a gentle tug. Out came the calf & the water works stopped short.

Bitsy cocked her head to the side, wrinkled up her eye brows, & watched the rest of the proceedings in rapt awe. Mr.Rowe proceeded to deliver 3 or 4 calves in the course of the next 15 minutes & Bitsy was enthralled. Tears still on her cheeks, she jumped down from my lap, ran to the TV again to point & holler, "Moo! Bee-bee! Moo! Mama!"

Afterwards, she spent 20 minutes "telling the story" of the baby moo's birth. It took me a while to figure it all out, but it goes something like this:

Bitsy- Pull! (it sounds more like 'Poo', but with her hand gestures, it was unmistakable in meaning).
Me- Did he pull that baby cow?
Bitsy- (nodding) Mama!
Me- Out of the mama?
Bitsy- (grabbing at the front of her pants, trying to look inside her own diaper) Pull!
Me-(this one took quite a while & she repeated herself quite a few times before I caught on) He pulled the baby cow out of the mamma's bottom?
Bitsy- (Nodding vigorously)Pull! Bee-bee (that's Bitsy for 'Baby').
Me- Uh, yeah. He pulled the baby.
Bitsy-Moo!
Me- Yes. A baby cow.
Bitsy- (tugging at her hair) Head.
Me- The baby cow has a head?
Bisty- (shaking her head 'no' & still tugging her hair) Pull!
Me- He pulled the baby cow by the head?
Bitsy- (nodding vigorously again) Pull! Head!
Me- No, baby. I think he pulled the calf by it's feet.
Bitsy- (after a moment of consideration) Feet. Pull.

Then she ran off to tell her dad who had no clue what she was talking about, but she never noticed. She jabbered & told him all about Mike Rowe & the baby cow & the pulling & the mama's bottom. I can't wait until she tries to tell this story to her Sunday School teacher.

Say Goodnite, Gracie.

Bed time. It's a time I look forward to all day long. It is also a time I dread all day long. "It's all over & I can relax" versus "I know have to fight a never ending battle to get the FarmHands in bed." Some days it's a zen experience. Some days I feel like I've been thrown to the lions in the Roman Colosseum.

Here's how, ideally, it's supposed to go:

• Dinner, eaten politely while we calmly chat about our day ("What was your favorite/least favorite part of the day?" is our favorite conversation starter).
• Table cleared & tiny faces & hands washed.
• Teeth brushed well & happily.
• Pajamas donned.
• Everyone snuggles down on the couch to listen to our latest chapter book, Bible stories, or a picture book eagerly picked from the school library shelf.
• Children are sent to potty, wash hands, and put on lotion (their hands get horribly chapped...I'm 99% sure it's the crappy soap in the school bathrooms), and get a final drink of water.
• Nightlights & radio/white noise machines are turned on.
• Hugs, kisses, and noses rubbed (Eskimo kisses, but they never call them that) as they are tucked in.
• I prance off to finish my laundry & watch something enlightening on PBS.

Here's how it usually goes:

• Everyone gripes because they don't like what I've cooked for dinner. The options of what I made or cold cereal are laid out. BabyGirl starts bossing B.B. B.B. starts screaming at BabyGirl for telling him what to do. #1 Son cries because it's not fair that BabyGirl got to drink out of a cup with no lid & he didn't. B.B. cries because his Spider-Man plate is dirty. Bitsy eats her food, smears the remainders of what's in the bowl on the table (if I'm lucky) or her head (if I'm not lucky or we're eating Spaghetti). BabyGirl finishes her dinner & demands a bowl of cereal or hot dog that I know she'll never finish but she insists she'll starve to death without.
• I scrape the plates into the goat bucket mumbling about how I'm sick to death of cooking for farm animals while Bitsy steals the opportunity to climb onto the table top, dance around a bit, and pilfer food from anyone's plate left unattended. When I catch her & attempt to wash her face she cries & insists she's not done eating.
• The FarmHands are told to go brush their teeth. And told again. And told again. And threatened with in an inch of their lives if they do not Get. In. That. Bathroom. Right. Now. Finally, I stand over & supervise the tooth brushing to insure there's enough toothpaste left in the tube to get us through morning brushes, the water isn't left on continually, teeth are brushed for more than 8 seconds (this isn't the rodeo people), and sinks are rinsed out. I brush Bitsy & B.B.'s teeth for them.
• Next begins the pajama wars. "Why isn't B.B. wearing pajamas? It's no fair that he gets to wear boxer shorts & I don't!" B.B. is going to put his on right now. "But I don't wanna' wear jammies! I wanna' wear my Shrek unner' pants!" "I can't find my black t-shirt to wear!" That's because you've worn if for 5 days straight. It could stand up on it's own. It's in the washer. "But I only want to wear that! I can't think of anything else to wear! Why did you do this to me?! This is why everyone hates you!" You only have to wear them for 20 minutes, you sleep naked, remember? "But I still can't find anything to wear! It's Not Fair!!"
• Everyone begins jockeying for position on the couch for stories. "That's my spot!" "He's touching me!" "I can't see the pictures!!" "Get out of my way!" "Is this a chapter book? I don't like chapter books. Can we read Green Eggs & Ham again? Why not? Please! But we've only read it 4 times this week!" "Why are we reading the Girls' Bible? Why can't we read the Boys' Bible?" "Why can't I read the bedtime story?" "No! No! We don't want BabyGirl to read it. We want Mommy to read!" "It's not fair! I never get to read the story!" When you give birth, you'll get to read the stories. "This is why everyone hates you!" "Bitsy, don't eat the book!!" "I didn't hear that page, read it again." "I didn't see the picture, turn it around! Show me again!" "One more book, please? Just one more? We promise we'll be good & listen this time. Promise!"
• Then off to the bathroom to potty one last time. The boys race to the toilet insuring someone will end up screaming in the floor that he has to pee much, much worse than the brother currently perched on the throne. BabyGirl wanders off to the other bathroom & never comes out again. Bitsy starts flushing the toilet repeatedly while someone is sitting on it making that child scream, "No, Bitsy! I'm not done pooping yet!" at the top of his or her lungs. Without fail, #1 Son ends up half naked during this process & takes 5 more minutes to re-dress himself. In the meantime, B.B. starts washing his hands prompting #1 Son to scream, "I get to wash my hands first! I was finished peeing first! It's my turn!" regardless of the fact that he's still sitting half naked on the bath mat. The hand towel is left in the sink 75% of the time.
• Night lights are turned on. BabyGirl's CD player is cued up & paused for her. The boys argue about whether or not to listen to "the frogs" on their white noise machine. They always listen to them. Always. But the debate must still occur.
• I get hugged, kissed, and my nose rubbed by both boys. Bitsy gets hugs & kisses from whomever she deems worthy that night (on good nights, it's both boys. On bad nights, she plays favorites). Then B.B. insists that I have not hugged or kissed him, so I do it again. I say to each boy, "Good night. I love you. I'll see you in the morning." They each say the same thing to me as fast as humanly possible, over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over again. Finally I tell them, "That's enough. Don't get out of bed." To which #1 Son replies, "Got it, Mom," and B.B. replies, "Say, 'Don't get out of bed.'" Don't get out of bed. "Say, 'OK.'" OK. "Say, 'Aye, aye.'" Aye, aye. I shut the door as they start chanting, "Good night. I love you. See you in the morning," again. I stand outside the closed door & holler for them to be quiet & go to sleep.
• BabyGirl is sent in her room to read for a few minutes while I rock Bitsy to sleep. B.B. gets up the first time for a drink of water because he "forgot while he was peeing." I tuck him back in. He comes out a second time to tell me he misses Daddy. I tuck him in with a warning not to get out of bed. He gets up one last time to see if I'm serious. He discovers I am. Very serious. BabyGirl is told to go to sleep. She begs to be allowed to read, "Just one more book. Please. Just one. I'm supposed to read a lot. My teacher says so. Besides I'm not tired yet." No. It's bed time. "Can I have a banana first? That wasn't enough dinner." No. Go to bed. "But I'm starved!" Bed. "Ugh!" Where are you going? "I have to pee!" What were you doing the 15 minutes you were in the bathroom earlier. "What? I don't know what you're talking about." Just go & get in bed. "I AM! WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS YELLING AT ME?!" When she's done I hug & kiss her good night & tuck her in. She gets up at least twice to tell me to turn the TV down (even when it's not on) or to ask me to cuddle with her (mainly when I'm rocking the baby to sleep).
• Bitsy wanders around the living room yelling to be allowed to go "Pway!" in the boys' room. Then she needs to build things with her blocks, love on all her babies, make piles of pillows to lay on, drink a cup of milk, rock in the chair with me, get down & run around so she doesn't accidentally fall asleep, empty her toy bucket, rock some more, laugh very loudly at the blanket on the back of the rocking chair (I have no idea why this is funny), and finally give up & allow herself to be rocked to sleep.
• I put her in bed, grab a half eaten bag of chocolate chips from the freezer, and collapse on the couch to watch mindless TV, Sweeny Todd, or Pride & Prejudice for the fourth time this month while I try to remember why I wanted four children.

I do love them. Truly I do. But there are some nights I'd rather run off & join the circus than try to get them all tucked in. And since time change, it's been 10 times worse than normal. We may have to start getting ready for bed at 4:30 every night just to make our 7:30 bedtime.

Bitsy still wakes up in the night. Since she's now in BabyGirl's room, at least to start off with each night, I didn't hear her. When she wakes, she toddles down to our room to sleep on a palate on the floor by our bed (long story), or climbs in with us (I'm working on this. Really I am) occasionally asking for a cup of milk. I woke up at about 1:30 Monday or Tuesday morning to find her standing by my bed with a gallon jug of milk in her hand. It took me a moment to realize what was happening. When I did, I took the milk jug (that only had about a pint of milk left in it) and headed to the kitchen. The refrigerator door was standing wide open & her cup was on the top shelf. I'm pretty sure the light blinded her a bit so she grabbed the next best thing....the entire jug of milk. I'm just glad she's not good at screw on caps yet.

How to tell you've been watching too much NCIS or Would you mind knocking me out?

I went to bed shortly after ten o'clock last night. Bitsy woke up shortly after eleven. I was having a hard time getting myself awake enough to go get her. Husband picked her up & brought her to bed with us. She snuggled in between us & dozed off for a bit.

I began dreaming about Mossad agents & espionage (I know, I know). Bitsy woke up again & was insistent about wanting something. I couldn't figure out who she was or what she wanted. Finally I was conscious enough to realize she was crying & signing "milk." I brought her her sippy cup & then took it back when she was done.

When I laid back down by her, I immediately slipped back into my NCIS inspired dream about terrorists & Israeli secret agents. Bitsy woke up again & started trying to get out of the bed. Once again, I couldn't figure out who she was or what she wanted. All I knew was that I had to keep her on the bed no matter what. Eventually Husband picked her up & started talking to her & that brought me around enough to realize what was going on.

She likes to get up in the night & sleep on a pallet on the living room floor (this started when we were weaning). Tonight Husband suggested I bring the pallet into our room & put it next to the bed so I don't have to sleep on the couch all night. Bitsy laid down on it & went right back to sleep.

I did not. I drifted in & out of a light, disturbed sleep & felt horrible. Finally I got up & headed for the arm chair in the living room. It's been 2 1/2 hours & I'm still there. Add puking to the mix & I may not sleep at all tonight. I'm not happy about this. Mama needs her sleep. Mama does not need a stomach bug. Mama flat does not have the time for this mess. And Mama really doesn't want to dream about Mossad agents anymore.

One good thing about 6 am

Bitsy has decided getting up at 6 am is a good thing. I, as her mother, disagree, but it seems I have little say in the matter. I just don't like being awake before the sun.

Really, this morning I should be thanking her because she woke me up from the strangest dream. I was pregnant with her & looking for a place that would agree to do a high def ultrasound. I was in Tennessee visiting with QM so she went with me. When the ultrasound tech was doing the ultrasound, she said, "Now, you do what you can to wake the baby up. Try to make her blink or grimace or something." So I said, "Hey baby, can you blink for Mama?" And suddenly the ultrasound screen looked less like a Doppler weather map & more like a studio video shoot. The baby turned it's head to look at the camera & oddly, my precious little girl looked exactly like Ralphie from A Christmas Story complete with black framed glasses & chubby cheeks. The Tech told me I could touch her (at this point I wasn't convinced the baby was a girl at all) and much to my surprised, I could reach through the screen & touch the baby. I told her I liked her glasses & she laughed at me. Then Bitsy woke me up. Oy.

BUT singles is on E! this morning (see how I did that with the title of the movie? I am so cool). This movie makes me miss being 19. Makes me miss Art & our tiny apartment (the Love Shack). Makes me want to go out dancing. Makes me want to listen to Pearl Jam & REM. Makes me think of someone I once knew who was in love with Kyra Sedgwick & thought he was Layne Stanley. Makes me want to hang out at Waffle House at 3 in the morning.

"We will always go dancing!"

"'Have fun. Stay single.' I was eight."

"I chose C. What to you think?" "I think that A, you have an act and that B, not having an act is your act."

"We're huge in Europe right now."

If they would only show Reality Bites next, my trip back in time would be complete. But then I might run away to be a waitress in a mediocre steak house & leave my husband & children to fend for themselves. Maybe I should just get ready for church.

This is what happens when you let FarmBoy play with toddler toys.

You end up with a "Tower of Pooh."

He wants to know if anyone else has a better caption for his picture. So, can you beat him? Huh? Can you? Can you?

FarmWife Answers

Kork starts off the fun this week with: What is your take on Organic for Baby? Inkling I know how you feel...and I'm curious how Farmie feels about going organic and green, being in the middle of the Midwest as she is.

Oddly enough, being in the Midwest (surrounded by farm land & all things good in nature) organic is not a word you hear often around here. Yeah, you can get Gerber Organics at Wal-Mart and a few select fruits & veggies that are certified organic in the produce section, but it's rather limited. Honestly I haven't given organic a great deal of thought. Maybe if it were more readily available or didn't cost twice what "regular" food does around here, I'd have considered it closer....and maybe if Kraft Mac & Cheese were organic....no, really, I think if you have the resources Organic is good. Just be careful what you decide to invest in. There are many things that being organic doesn't really change. And things that may say organic, but aren't really. Research.

And in a similar thread, Zann asks: Why is it that organic milk in the smaller containers lasts for...like forever.. but the larger jugs only last the same amount of time as regular milk? What is so special about those smaller cartons?

Um...Can't say I knew this was an issue. I used to buy Lactaid milk (during a time I believed I was lactose intolerant...turns out it's more of a sugar-in-great-amounts intolerance) and it was "ultra pasteurized." That milk would keep for weeks if unopened. Turns out, it's the same with Organic milk. According to Scientific America, UHT (ultra high temp. pasteurization) is used on organic milk because often times it must travel farther than regular milk to get to consumers. You may want to check the larger containers to see if they're marked ultra pasteurized, or if they're done the old fashioned way. (Incidentally ultra pasteurizing can also cause a sweeter taste in the milk which is why it's not done to all types of milk.)

Oddly enough, this is an article I found while Googling Organic Milk. It's an older article, but then this one showed up as well. It sounds like the rules for Organic milk are rather vague & easily avoided and there is no actual difference between organic and non-organic milk in make-up. It's all about the cows, not the milk.

An unnamed reader asks: Why does sticking your finger in coke fizz cause it to dissipate quicker?

My uneducated guess would be that your finger gives resistance to the tiny bubbles & breaks their surface tension quicker than if they're left alone. According to Self Serve Science, the oil in your skin may make the difference. But they also suggest pouring into a slightly wet glass. The dust & detergent that builds up on the surface of a glass act as a surface for bubble formation. If the glass is newly rinsed, this shouldn't be a factor.

Inkling starts us off with a pregnancy question: Why was chai tea okay to drink when I wasn't pregnant, and I loved it, and why does it cause me in this glorious beginning of the third trimester to feel like puking is imminent? Is there some weird chemical or spice that is contraindicated in pregnancy or something?

I have to say, I doubt it has anything to do with spices or chemicals. I think what you are experiencing is a food aversion. Plain & simple. With B.B. I couldn't stand the sight of Chinese food. With my other three pregnancies, I could have eaten it every day. With B.B. (in the second trimester) almost any liquid made me sick at my stomach. I could eat with no problem. I could drink if I was eating. But I could not sit down with a glass of anything & just drink it. It's a wonder I wasn't perpetually dehydrated.

Her second question is one I'd really rather not answer for fear of terrifying the poor girl. But, she asked and I'm obligated. That whole pubic bone softening thing that causes one to feel as if her bone down there is separating in two with each step is kind of painful. How long does it last? Why is it so painful? And does it cause pain when it's getting back to its normal state post-delivery?

Good news first: I don't remember pain post-delivery as the bones are shifting back. But then, it may have been over shadowed by the pain that comes naturally with post-delivery.

And now for the crappy news: Uh, it's going to last until Grasshopper gets here if you're like me. With BabyGirl the pain began when I was 39 weeks along. I delivered her at 41 weeks, so I only had 2 weeks of agony with each step. With #1 Son it began at about 36 weeks. With B.B. at 32. With Bitsy I think it began around the moment of conception.

It's actually the ligaments loosening up to allow the pelvic bone to spread so Grasshopper's (hopefully bullet shaped) head will have room to descend. As to why it's so painful, I think it's an individual thing. Since it hurt like the devil for me, and you are also in pain, I'd guess we can blame it on Grandma and Grandpa M&M's genetic make-up.

I can tell you, laying down makes it worse. If you have a recliner, try sleeping in it instead of your bed. If not, invest in pillows. Lots & lots of pillows. At least 2 under your head (because it's going to start happening in your rib cage soon & that will make it painful to breath if you're laying on your left side with only one pillow under your noggin), and a big fat one between your knees. That will help support your hips & lessen the pain.

She also asks: Where did "shake your booty" arise from anyway? Didn't booty once mean a type of loot? So when did it start referring to the nether regions of a woman's backside?

While I can't seem to find out exactly how the change came about, I did find information that states booty has been slang for buttocks since the 1920's. It's possible that it's a shortened form of bottom. The "Shake your booty" thing you can credit to KC and the Sunshine Band's 1976 #1 Hit song.

So that's it for this week's episode of Ask FarmWife. Maybe by next week I'll have made a button I'm happy with. We'll see.