Geronimo!

This was probably only my second post…

My father and I email each other quite a bit, and the other day he sent this. It has probably circulated forever, but after the day I’d had with my three, it was fresh relief, and a decent laugh…

On Aug 21, 2005, at 1:29 PM, Kim Welch wrote:

I showed you this years ago. Thought you might appreciate it more these days.

Dad

THINGS I’VE LEARNED FROM CHILDREN:

1. If you hook a dog leash over a ceiling fan, the motor is not strong enough to rotate a 42 pound boy wea

ring pound puppy underwear and a superman cape.

2. It is strong enough, however, to spread paint on all four walls of a 20 by 20 foot room.

3. When you hear the toilet flush and the words, “Uh-oh,” it’s already too late.

4. Brake fluid mixed with Clorox makes smoke, and lots of it.

5. A six year old can start a fire with a flint rock even though a 36 year old man says they can only do it in the movies.

6. If you use a waterbed as home plate while wearing baseball shoes it does not leak - it explodes.

7. A king size waterbed holds enough water to fill a 2000 sq foot house 4 inches deep.

8. LEGOS will pass through the digestive tract of a four year old….

9. Super glue is forever.

10. McGyver can teach us many things we don’t want to know.

11. No matter how much Jell-O you put in a swimming pool you still can’t walk on water.

12. Pool filters do not like Jell-O.

13. VCR’s do not eject PB&J sandwiches even though TV commercials show they do.

14. Always look in the oven before you turn it on.{that durn hamster…}

15. The fire department in Roseville has at least a 5 minute response time.

16. The spin cycle on the washing machine does not make earth worms dizzy..

17. It will however make cats dizzy.

18. Cats throw up twice their body weight when dizzy.

I particularly like the bit about the cats, although we don’t have any. There are those days when these sorts of emails help you get through to bedtime, and maybe get up the next morning, too. My own day had been hairy, although I’m sure, pretty typical for those staying home most of the time with children. I think the guys who write the Baby Blues comic strip LIVE in my house…many must agree. Monday is our heaviest chore day, and that Monday, I was focused on getting these things done after finishing a book I couldn’t get my nose out of til I finished. Even though I engage the children, and they help a lot, I am constantly amazed at what they think is “OK” play whilst I urgently try to clean and pick up. While I was upstairs without them, they got busy in the Big Room (our “formal” living room in a house built in the 50s that we have no idea what to do with), and pulled every chair, every pillow and 3 quilts into an amazing maze of tunnels, rode the arms of the sofas as “speeders” and filmed their drama…only to have Jake accidentally trip on his way down a ladder (that was included in the structure), and drop the camcorder. Within an hour of telling my folks how blessed we feel to have the film we do (we’d been watching and labeling old film), and that camera to capture more, and our “lessons” with Jake in how to film without requiring us all to take Dramamine to watch it, the camera is now apparently in some techno-heaven somewhere. Can’t get it to work at all. *sigh* Boys. *sigh* Jake is quite contrite, and I really can’t blame him for an accident, but entering the room I had just picked up and vacuumed and finding it unrecognizable and the camera busted was a bit of a strain on my patience, to say the least. So then I sent them upstairs to pick up their rooms and feed the gerbils, while I swapped laundry, only to hear blood curdling screams from Blue and Kat…turns out they were taking turns leaping over each other, one laying in the floor and the other leaping, and the biggest kid missed and landed his foot right in the littlest’s head…Kat was just screaming because Blue was so upset, and possibly quite injured. Helpful. And of course in the middle of the melee, Jake is negotiating his position of innocence, buzzing in my ear with his defense while Blue practically passes out in my arms (a thing he’s prone to do when very hurt and surprised at the same time), Kat is covering her ears in the corner, whimpering, and Max (the dog) is jumping and barking at all the noise, thinking its some sort of game of which he’s the center. This is soooooo not what I pictured when I was that girl in those old videos (we have some from college)…no wonder the children didn’t recognize me…she doesn’t even exist anymore! And I’m thinking about that silly email, and it occurs to me…is it antics by children in general, or is it BOYS?!? Completely testosterone driven craziness? Blue (our nearly 5 year old) flushed a Hot Wheels down the powder room toilet when we lived in Tennessee (he wasn’t even 2), and it was so stuck, a plumber had to come, take it OUT of the house, and turn it upside down in our front yard to retrieve the lost car?! That was surely endearing to the neighbors…but left to herself, Kat (our nearly 8 yr. old daughter) would draw, play with horses, dolls, and make things. And help me with any number of things just to be near me. With the boys, though, she’s constantly being drawn into some adventure, battle, or race, or Star Wars re-enactment that ALWAYS involves running, shouting, defending, sound effects, leaping, jumping, rescuing, spying, lots and lots of yelling to warn “the others” or signal attack, or retreat. My childhood was NO prep for this, nor was Blake’s for that matter! One of the films we reviewed yesterday included Kat catching Jake’s bum while he changed his shorts to his swim suit. Blue thought it was so funny that Jake got his bum filmed that he immediately dropped his own drawers, ran up to Kat, grabbed his penis, and squeezed it into the lens of the camera. I’ve NEVER seen male genitalia in quite such a manner, and most assuredly would not prefer to again. Blue howled beyond reason when he saw him”self” on film. Blake and I were actually speechless for once. I guess now we’ll have to figure a calm way to handle what can and cannot be filmed, to avoid some sort of child/film/porn laws violation, and try to get Blue to keep his pants on…once we replace the camera, that is! All we could say yesterday after the initial shock was that Blue should keep his stuff in his pants, and if he insists on taking it out, the camera should probably go off. I never!

Alright, most boxes are unpacked, and I’ve brought along really only my more favorite old posts. Running2Ks was right. It is waaaay too much of a pain to import them all. But, as I turn out the lights, and shut down my laptop, I’m feeling a bit like I do when we really do move…like the kitchen is set up, and good to go, the children can get in their beds, and to their toys and books, and I know where my shoes are. But there are many little details to attend to, which can be done over the next few weeks. So if you will visit my new place, be patient as I get the curtains up, and figure out the light switch from the garbage disposal over the sink. But, as I’ve gotten used to a few daily visitors, please keep coming by. I can make muffins, or put on tea, or make a mean margarita. And if there is a problem, say with leaving a comment, the tea is too strong, or margaritas too weak, please contact me through www.allisontannery.blogspot.com, for the next couple of weeks. I’ll get the mail, and get it straight…eventually, depending on how available the True Blue Semi-Crunchy Mama is. Not only is she holding my hand through this precarious adjustment, she was sweet enough to give me this compliment tonight…and although I live in South Carolina, and am surrounded by Southerners, and have been all my life, I’m thinking, what accent?! It’s everyone north of the Mason-Dixon that has the accents, right?! ; )

Written in September, when we were planning the boys’ rooms…

Funny side note: as previously mentioned, the boys are splitting up, and will now each have their own room. First time ever. Today, as Blue told his grandmother all about his “imaginary freind”, William Pretend Buddy Tannery, called Pretend Buddy, of course, for short, she asked him a question. “Will Pretend Buddy get to share your new room with you, Blue?”, to which he sighed exasperatedly, and moaned, “awww, maan, I still don’t get my own room!”.

Does your child have the Edison Trait? This may have been around forever, but I found this article fascinating. Especially if you have a highly active (I’m not saying hyperactive), hard to pin down, extremely creative, needs a bit of help focusing child. We do, and his name is Blue.

In September, when we were preparing the boys new rooms…

OK. I’ve seen a lot in my short decade as a mom. Especially since our third was born. This was new to me.

DH and I (and the 3 children when the whim hits) are painting Blue’s room. A really cool shade of green, sort of army, but not so dark. When one paints a room, you are, of course, forced to really examine the walls, and even the ceiling. There is that up close, personal view of every square inch of space, making even a small room feel interminably large when faced with trim out work. And so we saw it. It was right there, above the spot where the top bunk used to be. Near the bladeless ceiling fan, sans blades for the real potential danger that Blue would swing from them. It was a sort of smear, kind of chunky, varying in color and texture and covering about 7 square inches of supposed to be clean white ceiling. Blake and I looked at eachother and knew, nearly instantly. I went to find Blue.

(me, with face of near nausea) “Blue, hon, come here and let me ask you about something.”

(Blue, all innocence and curiosity, running in from the den) “Sure Momma, what is it?”

(me, again, starting with deductive reasoning) “Um, Blue. Tell Momma who used to sleep in the top bunk in your room?”

(Blue, stating the obvious) “Me.”

(me, hating where this is going) “Uh huh, and tell Momma who likes to occasionally pick his nose around here?”

(Blue, with absolutely zero compunction) “Me, Momma, that’d be me!”

(volley back to me) “OK, then, if you used to sleep on the top bunk, and you sometimes like picking your nose, would you please tell Momma what that might be on the ceiling in your room, right where your old bunk used to be?”

(the booger picker, with pride) “Oh, that?! I had boogers in my nose, I took them out, and I put them on the ceiling!”

And off he went to view his art work again, before we get out the bleach and the putty knife, quite tickled with himself. All this time, a little mucous mural has been slowly, yet surely building, right under our noses, and quite literally, in his. I don’t remember signing up for this. Yet, here I am. Boogers on the ceiling. The story of my life.

Written in September, when we gave the boys their own rooms…

Baby Boy Blue (who will be 5 next month) stood in the doorway of his newly painted, freshly de-boogerized room (gotto remember to get a pic to upload). It was a weekend of all that is entailed in getting a room painted (especially with the help of the children) and Blue’s ever growing enthusiasm as he saw “his room” coming together. Last night was his first official night on his own; big move for a little guy, who’d always had one, and often two siblings with him every night of his short years. But, there was no fanfare as he was tucked in after falling asleep, following a late night with friends over for dinner. And in the middle of the night, found his way to our bedroom, only then to wind up in Jake’s bed, instead of returning to his own.

So tonight, all of bedtime routine was buzzing upstairs, feet pounding the hardwoods, drawers slamming, toothbrushes scrubbing away, and each child finding their bed to end the day. Blake and I smiled at Blue, as he stood in his doorway. I said night-night and have a great sleep in your very own room, and descended the stairs. Then there were the sobs. And the the explanation that “it just hurts, it is so hard to sleep by myself…it really hurts.” So now Blue Boy is snuggled in his brother’s room, in the trundle right by brother’s bed; a room that is feeling just right due to the company he’s quietly keeping. Apparently, he was feeling a room with no brother or sister is just a bit too big, or maybe he’s still a little little. Either way, the new room’ll be there tomorrow, and the trundle’ll stay under Jake’s bed as long as necessary. Sweet dreams seem to be sweeter when shared with your big brother.

My husband suggested on evening to just write what I know…I got this out…

He (DH) got me thinking. And whether or not anyone sees this, I’m gonna go. Breast feeding. It’s amazing. One of the most satisfying, primal, honorable, Godly (not that if you don’t, it’s unGodly, I am NOT saying that) things you can do with and for you child. You envision that serene scene in a sunlit window seat, a whisper of a fulfilled grin on your contented, lightly made-up face, the child, round and warm, calm and satiated at your breast; an angelic gaze meeting yours, your eyes…pools of reflections of each other and all those that have gone before and will go on. A Madonna and her child, the two of you are, taking your place in the history of your ancestors, of all our ancestors, nourishing and nurturing your child. You can sense your holy task, the sacred duty and privilege that nursing your baby is. And all is right with the world. And so it is, as natural as natural is. Hell no it is not. At least not necessarily. My first 3 days with our first child…uneasy, unsure, he’s surely starving, does he need sugar water, is his circumcision bothering him, NO FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DO NOT GIVE HIM A PACIFIER…DON’T YOU KNOW ABOUT NIPPLE CONFUSION?!? How can even the nurses be so stupid…are they foiling my attempts behind my back in that subversive place they call The Nursery? Can I meet his needs, will my milk ever “come in”? How can these AAs ever do anything but fail him? We left the hospital, milk still “not in”, and me beside myself with nerves that I could never help him grow…what was God thinking? My measly mumps of boobs? Feed a baby for like, 4-5 months or more? Does it have to be 4-5 months? Isn’t there an optimal cut off? And yet, we did it. All three of us. My righty, my lefty, and little Jakey. After a C-section, and 2 nights at home, IT hit me. The MILK. No colostrum this time, the REAL deal. I awoke in a unfamiliar sweat, my pajamas soaked along with the sheet all around me. I had erupted. My very small, very perky breasts were HUGE, and leaking. And hot, and tight like drums (and looked pretty darn good, great even, if it hadn’t been for the gelatinous belly full of stretch marks they had to rest on). IT was here. THE MILK everyone had told me about. And there was a hungry baby in the other room. The problem? My boobs were so tight, the little newborn boy mouth couldn’t get a grip to save his little newborn life. Each breast was like, twice the size of his downy, perfect head. Nipples too tight? I’d never heard of this. Yet, here I was, in the middle of the night, screaming baby, two too full breasts, and no one happy. CALL THE LADY! Blake stumbles around in the dark trying to discern whatever I could be talking about. Who on earth does one call at 2 am, Allison, he is saying. THE LACTATION CONSULTANT MILK GODDESS NURSED 14 BABIES LADY!!! So the anwser? Express some of that milk right off the top of those babies, she said. What? Doesn’t that make even more milk? Well, yes, but not so much in the beginning that it’ll be an issue. Apparently my body, my boobs, and the baby will all magically sync up, soon. So Jakey gets the hang of it, I deflate my nipples down to decent latching on size, and start storing gallons of expressed milk in the freezer. He gets it so good that he’s demanding it nearly every hour and a half. At least I know he’s not starving. But there is a cost to all this milk demanding. My nipples pay a high price. They crack, they bleed, they begin to shred off in small chunks of gnawed on skin. And I have to do the “hee hee hee hoo hoo hoo” thing just to get through each feeding, which seems like 32 times every 24 hours. And I’m completely sleep deprived, and unclean. We both smell so much like puke, Mylicon and sour breastmilk that my mother demands that I hand the baby over one day, so she can bathe him, and I can shower. Which hurts my nipples. CALL NURSED 14 BABIES LADY! So I did. The answer this time? Air them out. Air what out, I whine. Air your nipples out. Oh. And the prescription for this means going without a shirt or bra for 2-3 days, and using copious amounts of the Diamond of All Balms, Lansinoh. And no, it doesn’t hurt the baby. So later that day when Blake arrives home, there I am in the kitchen, in all my National Geographic-like glory, baby on in a sling across my raw chest, warming up a meal my mother had prepared and frozen in anticipation of the arrival of the Most Precious Baby on Earth. Hoping some shred of nipple doesn’t wind up in the dinner. Don’t ask, I tell my dear husband. Just hold the *&^*%%* baby and lemme go pee by myself. And later some time that week, which is like the 3rd or so we’ve been home, and feels like an eternity since our old life, the one I miss, and the one where I need not worry about someone finding bits of nipple scab in their meal, I decided I’d had it, and we’d ruined our life. On the boob, baby is blissful. Off the boob, our entire household is hell. I can’t take it! I wail, as I sit in the rocker for the gagillionth time that evening, to submit my poor breasts to the torture I know this feed will be. And my husband, in the loving, worried, I need to help her way that he should, suggests the unsuggestable. I’ll go get bottles, he said. And formula. This is too hard on you. WHAT!?!?! I shriek. This insidious, evil, unsupportive snake of a thought (not that I’m saying bottle feeding is bad, just a statement of my over ripe postpartum state, don’t tell me I’m against moms who choose bottles - I’m not) strikes me like a right hook to my post surgery swollen chin. And rob my baby of my IRREPLACABLE MAGIC MILK, and let his poor, undeveloped immune system be slaughtered by uncountable numbers of disease and plague? And what if we never bond and I hardly recognize him when he’s 14? Are you insane? Support me here! Which is, of course, exactly what he was trying to do.

So, slowly, we got Jake into a more managable feed and sleep cycle (read here: I just stopped giving in every 90 minutes, sorry La Leche), and the seemingly interminable winter became spring, literally, as things thawed in our household as well. Jakey worked his way from those 14 feedings a day, to one little nip at the end of our days, just before tuck in each night, when he was 14 months old. The old girls really did toughen up, and adding 2 more children over the next few years have probably guaranteed never being as sensitive as pre-baby again. And that early spring, a lifetime from the previous, I remember one night I swear I’ll remember if I live to be 100. We sat down, settled in the well rocked rocker, and I began to arrange us. He sat up. This was odd. So I made the attempt again. He sat up. Milk? I almost pleaded, not allowing my heart to go where my brain knew this was taking us. “All done”, he signed (we’d done the baby sign language thing), and then signed “bed”. As if I’d been stabbed straight through the most tender spot of my heart, I slowly carried him in to his Daddy, unable to put him down without our blessed ritual. Watching him being carried off to bed, his Daddy able to do for the first time, I caught him smile and a wave nigh-nigh to me. And I felt as if someone had died. Over many tears, and with a truly broken heart, I cleaned up our dinner dishes (with my shirt on, and without bits of nipple), and realized the great break of independence that had just occured. That had to occur. The thing that I thought would nearly kill me to get going, nearly killed me to have to end.

So sometime the next month, we found out we were going to get to do it again. And 10 months later, Kat was born. I could hardly contain my joy that first couple of weeks as my poor breasts readjusted to once what was so familiar, painful and wonderful. This time, though, I knew we’d survive, and even thrive. And that it most certainly would not last forever. And heck, there was nothing a little nakedness and Lansinoh couldn’t cure. And I knew that without calling The Lady.

shot in my bum.
I resorted to the doctors
and some modern medicine

My eyes were all swollen
and nearly all shut
what’s a little pain
in my well endowed butt?

I told them my symptoms
I sneezed for good measure
My nose dripped constantly
they brought out the treasure

They said bend on over
So I pulled down my pants
I think at my tatoo
I caught him stealing a glance

The shot was not bad
a small little prick
not a price too high
when feeling so sick

And four children to love
take care of and feed
wipe bottoms and clothe
and tend to each little need

So I type out this ode
in grateful relief
as this morning proves much better
a miracle, my heartfelt belief

My eyes are nearly normal
my nose, beginning to heal
If you’re ever so taken by allergies
Mighty Cortisone’s the deal!

written at the height of allergy season, at the start of September…

I have since spent some time emailing with Thicket Dweller, and find her to be wonderful, even if a bit jealousy provoking, at least on my part…

I have been reading Thicket Dweller’s blog. It was actually the first one I ever saw, that sort of jazzed me into staring my own feeble attempt. And I like to go back there, and see what’s going on in her world. Or, I did. She homeschools, and does all that has to be done running a home. She tries interesting holistic approaches to health, and life. She’s still nursing the baby, the fourth child, who’s about 2 now. She’s incredibly versed in getting her computer and blog to do the things she wants them to do, apparently, as there are lots of pics and links, and stuff like drawings of the inner ear canal when one child had Swimmer’s Ear. That intimidates me enough, as my 9 year old is the only one home during the day who really knows how to work our ancient digital camera. But today, well, today, I’ve decided I’m either lazy, a loser, or both. I read Thicket Dweller’s Fall/Winter To Do List. And now I need to take a nap. She’s giving either giving new definition to the Proverbs 31 woman, or doing it the way I always tended to think was a little exaggerated, and not expected of me. Either way, I seem woefully behind. The worse part is that I have been leaning on that “we have 3 children under ___age, and I HOMESCHOOL them all” thing. She has 4 children under ___age, still nurses one, homeschools them all, and apparently never sleeps. And she seem to do the things on her list in a way I only thought they did them on those home or garden shows on TV…like, real people don’t really take all the furniture out of a room, wipe down the walls and baseboards, and tape out BEFORE they start painting, do they (in our last project, I spit on my finger and wiped the dust off the molding just ahead of my paint-filled brush)?

Mulching perennial beds is on the list. I don’t know if we even have a perennial bed. I didn’t know how to spell perennial without referring to her list. Clean the garden tools and place in oily sand? Aren’t you supposed to pull them out of some junk box from your garage in the spring, and find last year’s mud still caked on them? If you can locate them at all? She mentions bringing in potted plants…I give up on mine in the real, first, choking heat of the end of July, and just anticipate next spring, knowing they’ll only last April-July then, too. She cleans and reorganizes her fruit cellar! This is a complete unknown to me…we only have a crawl space, out in the suburbs…and buys candles and batteries for emergency use. We’ll just be sitting (or falling down) in the dark in our house, if power’s lost. Every flashlight we’ve ever purchased got somehow appropriated by the children, and is gone forever. Even the YOU SHALL NEVER TOUCH THIS FLASHLIGHT EVER flashlight I’ve replaced at least 3 times. She freezes large volumes of beef and stews and roasts…bakes breads, pizza and pie dough to do the same. The best I’ll ever do here will be seeing a 2fer sale at Bilo, and purchasing 4 whole loaves of wheat bread at once. Why? Because I’m sitting here watching the day go by, typing in my stupid blog! Which she also does! And better! She goes through all the fall and summer clothes, cleaning out, storing and putting away as necessary. She gets out scarecrow mold things for the children to dress and decorate…we usually end up with a pumpkin or two, right before they’re out of season, but never really get around to carving them. They start caving in sometime around Easter. She probably makes roasted pumpkin seeds and pumpkin bread and pumpkin pies from the insides of hers. I’m so jealous. And fearful my husband may one day read her blog. So far, he, and I have been buying the “number of children and all homeschooled” excuse. So now what?

The worst part is that this is the kind of productivity and organization I once aspired to, even once nearly attained (except for the fruit cellar part, never had a fruit cellar, but did once preserve wild violet jelly). But no more. The third child sent me over the edge, and I’ve been looking for short cuts ever since. He’s nearly 5, and I still feel I’ve not quite recovered. I’ve discovered frozen and boxed foods, chicken nuggets, Kraft Mac and Cheese (it’s microwavable) and Happy Meals. I consider pizza an all in one balanced meal (bread, vegies, meats if you like…it’s all there). My van is a traveling trash can half the time, and we recently hired a lawn service. I take Zoloft to even accomplish this. The kind of life at which I used to look down my nose is now mine (what? what’s that you say? something about pride before the fall?). And most of the time, I don’t even care. But not when I read her blog! I could get it back…I could start baking again, find my gardening books and get in the yard for reasons other than getting the paper, finish painting the hall upstairs, and actually do one of those edible science experiments with the children from the book I bought (oh how many good intentions I have). Plan a menu for a week, and actually use it. Buy some mums. Make a quilt! I’ve done it, I could do it again! Well, crap. This whole thing has made me tired. Now I just need a nap.

It may be a cliche’, but Blake and I, we’re children of the 70’s. Each of us were born that auspicious year, and reached 10 by the end of that decade. When I think of the extremely formative things our children have experienced/are experiencing, and aren’t even 10 yet (not for 2 more months), I realize how powerful an impact this first, young, ripe decade in person’s life is. So, of course, we, as parents, are seasoned, and bright, and always on task. For perfect example of how we may spend our valuable time, there’s this really stupid game we play occasionally, that is strictly free association based on a theme. Yesterday, as I was stepping in the shower (listed in my accomplishments), DH called. “Yo yo”, he said, in greeting. I said, “pogo stick”.
I heard a “jump rope”, to which I replied, “moon shoes”.
“Roller skates”, he countered.
“Hippity Hop”, I volleyed.
4 Square.
Mood ring.
Slinky.
Stretch Armstrong.
GI Joe.
Baby Alive.
Cabbage Patch Kids.
Betsy Wetsy.
My Merlin.
Simon Says.
Slime.
Silly Putty.
Operation.
Shoots and Ladders.
Shmoo Meets the Flintstones.
Captain Caveman and the Teenagers.
Sid and Marty Croft.
Space Giants.
Johnny Bench bats.
Josey and the Pussycats.
ElectraWoman and DynaGirl.
Rubic’s Cube (off on another direction).
Pac Man.
Space Invaders.
Dukes of Hazzard.
The Muppets.
The Donny and Marie Show.
Betty Crocker Little Bake It Oven (not sure about the name here).
Make Your Own Rock Jewelry Kit (again, what was that thing called?).
Pet rock.
MonChiChi.

I think the point is taken. What do you remember? What did you think you could not live without? As my folks played Abba, and Paul Simon, Eddie Rabbit, Olivia Newton John, and, The Eagles, these toys and things were forming the fabric of my childhood. Just the mere mention brings memories I never realized existed…and what is so weird, is that there are images forever imprinting themselves on our children’s memories, in just the same way. To The Black Eyed Peas? Dave Matthews Band? Bruce Hornsby? And the stuff we subject them to from our college days (R.E.M., B52s, Edie Brickell, The Rembrandts, John Hiatt, World Party, numerous others I can never remember to mention)? Today, they ask for material to make a robot, computer program games, cell phones (yeah, right), motorized scooters, their own PC (yeah, right again), IPods, etc. As we think they’re nuts, so must our parents have felt about us. Same thing, different time. That’s all.