Kendall's Mom

Counting Chickens

What's that saying? "Don't count your chickens before they hatch?..."

A few weeks ago in a conversation I had with my husband I asked him if we could get chickens. He said yes. Two nights later we were sitting around the dinner table and Kendall and I were blabbering on and on about our future chickens. I told Kendall that one of the chickens could be hers and she could name it and everything. Then I noticed that my husband looked pained. "Honey, what's wrong?" He answered with a question, "Did we really have this conversation? Did I really tell you that we could get chickens?"

HA! I keep telling him he doesn't listen to me. HA! Maybe now he'll pay more attention, eh? I keep trying to figure out how he missed an ENTIRE conversation. Like, what did he hear? "Blah blah chickens blah blah blah..." And he's thinking, what? Chicken sounds good for dinner? "Sure, honey, whatever you want..."

The other conversation (ongoing debate?) that we keep having is whether or not to have another baby. Is he too old? Am I too old? Considering the first one almost killed us (and is still trying) is it really the wisest choice for us? Can we physically tolerate another 3.5 years of 2.5 hours of sleep a week? Hmm. So I answered his question with a question of my own. I held up my hands as if physically weighing our options and asked "Chickens?...Baby?... Chickens?...Baby?..." To which my husband promptly replied, "How many chickens are we getting?"

Kendall and I were supposed to go visit our future chickens yesterday, but due to the Spring Rain (known in other parts of the country as a "monsoon") we put it off. But the chickens are coming!! And so are the eggs... and recipes for quiche... and fritatta...and omelettes...

to be continued...

First Mammogram

As part of this milestone birthday, turning forty, I had my first mammogram. I had heard rumors as to what to expect, and I thought I would share my experience for those who haven't yet gone through this middle-age rite-of-passage. We are fortunate enough to have insurance that covers my mammogram and when I called for an appointment they were able to book me for about a week later.

On the day of the test I didn't wait long after check-in in before I was called from the waiting room by a very pleasant technician, "Barbara." Barbara greeted me warmly and took me to a little dressing room, much like those in a department store. I was instructed to take everything off from the waist up and put on what looked like a hospital-green Christmas tree skirt (not a lot of coverage on the sides.)

When I was done undressing and dressing (if you could call it that,) Barbara then escorted me to the room where my scan would be done. It was a small room, but larger than a normal exam room. The scanning equipment was fairly large but surprisingly quiet. On the machine there was an acrylic type "shelf" that your breast rests on for the scan, and another clear acrylic piece that came down on top of the breast. Barbara used foot pedals on the floor to help position the acrylic pieces.

Barbara asked me some brief questions regarding my family health history and my health and then explained pretty clearly what was going to happen. She had me stand in front of the machine and remove the "gown" from the side that was going to be scanned.

Barbara said she would be positioning me for the scan and I mistakenly thought she would take me by the shoulders and steer me into position. This was perhaps the only thing that kind of caught me by surprise because instead, she took my breast in her hands and placed it on the surface of the machine(much like you would put cold-cuts on a sandwich.) In order to do this she was basically standing up against my back. She held my breast in place while she lowered the top portion of the scanner down onto my breast (much like you would push the top piece of bread down on your sandwich...) This is the part I had been warned about. I've heard that this is quite painful, or at least very uncomfortable, but it wasn't that bad. (Not to totally overdo the sandwich metaphor, but I'm guessing Barb makes a mean panini.) I'm also guessing that if you have the scan done at a particularly sensitive time in your cycle, this could be quite painful but honestly, I've had more painful dates.

Having Barbara manhandle me into position was surprisingly not the most awkward part of the procedure. Having my breast(s) exposed while she was talking to me and very pointedly looking me directly in the eye and nowhere else was weird. It made me want to look away like our dog does every time we try to make eye contact with him.

Even having my breasts so "on display" wasn't necessarily that uncomfortable either, especially given that I had a female technician. And after nursing my daughter, I have a new found respect for the "girls." They are one (two?) of few body parts that I'm not altogether displeased with. (Now had this been a "bummogram," I think I would have to have been sedated. "Please uncover your right side...Oh my goodness, I'll be right back. I'll need assistance positioning you..." Heavy sedation.)

My scan consisted of taking four images, one of each breast from the front and one of each breast from the side, which I think is pretty standard. Getting into position for the side view means placing your arm up on the machine in a kind of weird robot hug. When the images were actually being taken I was instructed to momentarily stop breathing.  I think I was at the clinic for a grand total of about twenty minutes.

Barbara said that I would receive my results in about ten days or so, after my results had been reviewed. About five days after the scan, I received what looked like a fairly standard form letter indicating there were no problems found in my scan.

(Whew!) Definitely one of the best birthday presents I got this year!

The Badmom Chronicles: Playing Hooky

(Part One of many...)

Monday I let Kendall "play hooky." She, of course, doesn't even know that word but that's what we did. My husband and I went to see "Wicked" Sunday night so Kendall was at the sitter's until quite late. I let her sleep in and by the time she woke up and ate breakfast she had missed much of the school day anyway.

When Kendall finally did get up she came and found me in the living room and sleepily crawled into my lap. A network morning show was on and the hosts were sampling special cocktails that were created in "honor" of Barbie's fiftieth birthday. Naturally, we decided to have a hand at making our own. (Virgin, of course!!)

At the Montessori school that Kendall attends, there are several activities that the children can choose from that are called "practical life" lessons. Included are polishing, doing dishes, slicing bananas and juicing fresh oranges. For our drink (we made a pink lemonade) I let Kendall slice the lemon (with a child's safety knife) and then juice it. 

  

You didn't know making mocktails was a "practical life" lesson, did you? I personally feel that knowing how to make a mean mixed drink is more of a "LIFE SKILL." If the child is driving me to drink, the least she can do is learn how to make the drinks! (Yes, I said "driving me to drink." Did you read the post about how she pooped in the yard? Or the one where she cut the phone cord? Or how about the one where she thinks up twelve different ways to tell me to "shut up" without saying "shut up?" I'm still too mad to write about how she sucked all of the water out of the dog bowl with the vacuum...)

Ok, so perhaps this does fall under "creative parenting," but here's how the drink turned out:  

We colored the drink pink with a splash of cranberry juice and garnished the rim of a fancy glass with pink sprinkles and a heart-shaped apple slice. Kendall named the drink the "Barbie Sparkle." It's catchy. I can just hear people ordering it in a swanky bar, "I'll have a Barbie Sparkle, please..."

Kendall's dad worked late that night so we ended the day having a fast food picnic on a beach towel on the living room floor while watching 101 Dalmatians.  We never eat in the living room and Kendall giggled all the way through her french fries!

To recap, our version of "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" included: Sleeping in. Staying in our jammies all damn day (don't tell.) Eating fast food. In the living room. Eating fast food in the living room while watching tv. A bartending lesson. A bartending lesson making drinks inspired by a plastic bimbo doll.

Yes, I'm currently working on my nomination for "Homeschooling Parent of the Year."

I'm also working on Kendall's kindergarten homeschool curriculum for next year. Forget the three "r's," so far it includes such essentials as: "How To Stuff Your Bra" and "Applying Eyeliner 101." We'll continue the "practical life" lessons  with "Organizing Your Take-out Menus."

Somewhere in the middle of the day I gave us both manicures. If I can figure out a way to turn that into a "practical life" lesson, then I can call a trip to the nail salon a "field trip," right? I'll work on that for the next time we skip school...

As Brave as Can Be: Take Two

My adventures with dollar store hair color...

Remember the whining about turning forty? Remember the gray hair?

 

Remember the box of hair color from Dollar Tree?

I finally got my nerve up and found some time to try it out. When I opened the box I found all of the usual paraphernalia inside:

gloves, instructions, two-part bottles of color and the post-coloring conditioner.

I have this bowl and brush from Sally Beauty that I bought

so I can paint the color goo only where I really need it. Like here:

I think I've pretty much used almost every drugstore hair color that's out there. Clairol Nice n' Easy, Clairol Root Touch Up, Garnier, Natural Instincts... you name it. So far my personal favorite is Clairol Nice n' Easy. The Dollar Tree stuff is way cheaper than anything you'd find in a grocery store or drug store, but it was pretty stinky. As in it had a strong odor. All hair color does, but this was worse than others I have used. It also took longer than any I've used before.

Here is the after:

When all was said and done, it did get rid of the gray and blended pretty well with my hair color. Unless my hair turns a funky color or starts to fall out, I'd use it again. Especially at a dollar a box.

Poo Two: Poop Postscript

Well, so much for the thoughtful essays on parenting, the (hopefully somewhat) humorous observations of a devoted mom...

It seems poo rules.

My two poo-centric posts have been disturbingly popular. This is a trend I certainly didn't anticipate. I'm not really sure if that says more about my writing... or my readers. (All three of them.) Fan number one, my mom, has requested no more poop. Sorry mom, poop happens. But I'll do my best.

I am referring, of course, to the previous post on my dining experience at a local "Olive Garden" Restaurant. You know, where a fellow diner apparently ordered the "soup poop, salad and breadsticks." Or maybe he ordered the "number two special..." Not sure. Doesn't matter. I really don't want to "go there" again. (To the restaurant or replay the experience.)

Since this was one of the most popular post to date, I've received the most comments on it. Including negative comments for the first time. (Does that make me a "real blogger?" Say it like Pinocchio says "a real boy.") Some of the comments caught me off guard. I would certainly expect comments as to how GROSS this was, but not necessarily comments on me personally. I guess I did "put it out there," but at the time I thought the story would only reach the aforementioned three readers...

One commenter called me a "consumerist pig with no compassion or empathy." Thanks for reading! I might take offense at that if it wasn't so far from the truth. I re-read my post and I did kind of sound like that since my mom and I had spent the day shopping, but this was a special occasion. Both the shopping trip and the dinner out were an unusual treat as it was my birthday and one of those milestone birthdays. I bought luxury items like, pants. And socks. And like I always do, I will wear them until I wear them out. 

As far as my "compassion" and "empathy," I'm not really sure how to answer that, mostly because I'm very uncomfortable tooting my own horn. When I was younger I was a "candystriper" at our local hospital. A "candystriper" is a volunteer (as in you don't get paid) who helps take care of patients - and I was very good at it! I liked doing it! My compassion was a huge part of my makeup from a very early age. Let me simply say that I can assure you I am a very compassionate and empathetic person and people who know me personally know this.  

More than one commenter assumed the man at "Olive Garden" was elderly. I was "dehumanizing the elderly." I described him in the post as "older" and said that he was part of a group of "middle aged folks." Not elderly. And it's not relevant. The source of said poo wasn't really the issue, the poo itself was more the star of the show. It didn't matter where it came from, the fact that it was next to the table where I was eating and all through the restaurant was really the point. No matter how compassionate or empathetic you are, there shouldn't be POOP on the loose where FOOD is being served! For the record, none of the other patrons (the other consumerist pigs with no compassion or empathy) jumped up to wipe this guy's butt either. Even the manager, who he asked to act as pooper-scooper, it seemed fled the scene.  

Another unexpected result of the post is the willingness of others to share their own best poo stories. It's like when you're pregnant and everyone wants to tell you about their horrible 83-hour labor and the epidural that didn't take and how they tore up to their bellybutton and THEN had a c-section. It's like everyone wants to be part of this neat little club that I unwittingly formed. Thanks for sharing! My husband says I should have a contest but I'm really not up for reading and then judging a bunch of stories about poop. Thanks to everyone for reading and thanks for the comments. And thanks for letting me defend myself. Now let's all just take a "potty break," shall we?

No, REALLY. THE Grossest Thing Ever. EVER.

As part of my fortieth birthday celebration, I spent last Sunday shopping with my mom at Clackamas Town Center. We shopped until the mall closed and then Mom treated me to dinner at the nearby Olive Garden. I used to really like Olive Garden. Now I don't know if I'll ever be able to eat there again... (Wouldn't you just know it, that right after posting "The Grossest Thing Ever," something much worse, much more gross, would happen?)

The dining area in the Olive Garden is separated into several "rooms." On this night, in the "room" around the corner from us there was a fairly large group (eight or ten people or so) of middle aged folks. Across the aisle from us was a young family group of two couples and three little kids. Seated at the table in front of us was an attractive young couple. Near the end of our meal a very heavy older man was leaving the group of middle aged folks. Walking was a struggle for him and I could hear him huffing and puffing from the effort. Suddenly, he stopped right behind my chair and in a very guttural voice kind of grunted, "Uh oh." At that very same moment the overwhelming stench of... excrement just about made me throw up. I was seriously close to a round-trip visit to hurl-ville.  

The smell was horrible. Vile. Unbearable. My mind raced to try to explain what had just happened. Maybe one of the little kids from across the aisle had a diaper issue? Maybe Puffy just tooted, right? Right? But then he gestured for the manager to come over and since he was right behind me, I heard him ask the manager, "Could you have someone follow me out and clean up after me?" (WTF??) The manager said something to the effect of "I understand, sir" and promptly disappeared. Puffy continued on his way, walking between our table and the young families table, then past the attractive couple. And with every step he took, a glob of poo fell out of the bottom of his pant leg into a little pile on the floor. EVERY STEP. 

Step...plop...step...plop...

Puffy walked...very...slowly...leaving behind him an unbelievable trail of shit. The wait staff was somehow completely unaware of what was happening and in rushing around to deliver lasagna proceeded to walk through it. And track it ALL OVER. My mom and I looked at each other in complete horror. I am not making this up. This really happened. My mom said "LET'S GET OUT OF HERE!" We very carefully watched our steps and hurried out of there as fast as was possible.

The path of poo piles continued right through the waiting area and out the door. I cannot possibly describe to you the copious amounts of human waste that we are talking about here. As we were walking out, a man walking in pointed to the smears of shit on the floor and asked the twelve year old hostess, "WHAT is THAT?" She looked at a perfectly innocent gentleman who was waiting for a table, and standing unfortunately close to one of the piles of crap, and tried to blame it on him. "Oh, I think it must have come in on his shoe..." I tried to explain to her what had really happened but I'm not sure she got it because I was telling her as I was walking out. No way was I going to stop to tell her what had happened. We just really wanted to get the hell out of there. (Besides, Puffy did tell a manager, right?) 

My poor mom had to pee but we were so desperate to get out of there that she decided against using the restroom there. We drove to the Target right by the restaurant and used their facility. On the way out of Olive Garden I was making her laugh so hard she almost had an accident of her own. I asked mom, "Did you want to sit in the shitting section or the non-shitting section?" I think we were seriously in shock. We found ourselves looking down at the floor and watching our step in Target because we were so traumatized. And when we realized what we were doing we started laughing so hard people probably thought we were drunk.  

Afterward I just kept shuddering because it was almost impossible to make the awful images and thoughts go away. Thoughts like: What kind of gastrointestinal distress has to happen for you to shit yourself? What the hell did he order? Did he have pre-existing "issues" and maybe his "Depends" turned out to be not-so-dependable? Puffy had to then go out to his car and (squish) sit down. How many different health codes are violated when there is poop on the floor of your restaurant dining room and your staff is tromping through it? EEW. Shudder. (And fellow bloggers, how DO you type a retching noise, anyway?)

I told my husband what happened and he now calls Olive Garden "Poop Garden." If I had a disgusting association, like this one, with all of my favorite foods, I would be super-model thin in a matter of weeks. Was this karma? Did I spend too much that day at the mall? All I know is that this was one of the most disgusting things that I have ever experienced. And I know disgusting. This was right up there with when the neighbor boy peed on my head. Almost as bad as when a seagull pooped on my head. And if you haven't had your fill of doodey stories, you can look forward to my posts on those incidents...

Sick Day TV

Last week Kendall was kind of fighting off a little bit of a cold so she stayed home with me on Tuesday. We wound up cuddling on the couch and watching TV for much of the day. It seems Kendall and I have similar tastes in men... besides both of us being crazy about her dad/my husband, we both have a crush on Mike Rowe, the guy from "Dirty Jobs." (Don't tell.) Have you seen this show? Mike travels around the country doing "dirty jobs" (such as cleaning sewers, cleaning diapers at a cloth diaper service, etc.) and believe it or not, it makes for some pretty great TV.

Our favorite that day was when Mike went to work at a dairy farm. We watched the cows getting milked and Mike inseminating cows. At one point he had his arm in the business end of a cow, up to his shoulder, and the cow started to poo. Mike looks at the camera and says, "I could've hosted a game show. But no, I think I'll stick with this... see where it takes me."

The dairy farm had a "maternity ward" and we got to see a few calves being born. Took me back... way back... to my days in Ridgefield. We lived in Ridgefield for a few years when I was around 12 years old or so. (The shack I mentioned in my "25 Things"...no running water or electricity? Good times.) Our bus ride to school was easily an hour or more through a very rural country area and we passed several farms. In the spring our bus driver, Charlotte, would actually pull over if she saw a cow giving birth. She would park the bus there at the side of the road and we would all groan and roll our eyes as she grabbed the intercom and narrated for us, "The mother cow eats the placenta so that the scent doesn't attract predators..." These are the childhood traumas experiences that made me who I am today... but I digress...

Kendall and I watched as one poor momma cow in labor walked around, mooing pathetically, while two tiny hooves stuck out of her bottom. (Highly educational programming, no?) After showing two cows give birth, they then showed a momma cow who had a twisted uterus and had to have a c-section. Kendall was fascinated and when her dad came home she was very excited to tell him all about it. "Dad! One of the calves couldn't be borned because the mom had a twisted universe!" Her statement was not entirely inaccurate... that is what happens when you have a child, isn't it? Your universe gets twisted...

Liar Liar

So... remember how Kendall cut her hair?

And remember how she took a poo in the yard? She basically told me that she did. You see, she tried to lie about it, but so far she is incredibly bad at it. She passed the stage where she told me via the kind of reverse psychology technique. You know, like announcingg out of the blue "Mom, I didn't cut my hair." Or "Mom, I didn't poop in the yard." She has moved on. Now she kind of has a code word. Like when she pooed in the yard, she told me, "Mom, something unusual." And when she cut her hair, she came up to me and said, "Mom, something unusual...my hair isn't growing right here." She might as well say, "Mom, I'm about to tell you what I did, and you're not going to like it."

I am so annoyed by her lying. It bothers me more than whatever stinky stunt she just pulled off. I really, really miss the days where it didn't even occur to her to lie. One morning (this was before she started preschool,) I was downstairs on the computer and I heard her get up. She usually would come find me, but on this day she didn't. When I went upstairs I couldn't find her. I had to call out for her, "Kendall, where are you?" She answered, "I'm in your closet!" Not good. "Kendall, what are you doing in my closet?" Comes the casual answer, "Oh, I'm just sneaking in your purse!" Ah, those were the days...

Kendall Scissorhands

Remember how Kendall cut the phone line?

Unfortunately this was not our first experience with her being a little too enthusiastic about using the scissors. A few weeks before Christmas I had put some presents under the tree while Kendall was at school. That day when she came home from school she ripped them open. While I was re-wrapping said presents, she was supposed to be in the sunroom (where we do crafts) making snowflakes. Instead, she cut her hair. Here:

And here:

It's days like this... where I'm glad I can't be "fired" from this "job." If I could've been fired, I would have been written up several times by now and long ago "dismissed."

It was just heartbreaking as we had finally made it out of that awkward "boy in a dress" stage.

It took forever for Kendall's hair to grow. I was ecstatic the day I was able to eek out these little pig-tails. Sigh.

A note: Unbelievable how therapeutic blogging has been for me. Here I had been thinking that my chronic exhaustion was due to some illness or physical ailment. The more I blog and re-read posts like this, the more I think to myself, "DUH."

 

As Brave as Can Be

Remember the gray hair?

I do color it, it just grows out so damn fast. And even though I do it myself, the cost of the boxes of color do add up. So when I found this

at Dollar Tree, I bought a box. Actually, I bought two. It's true, my cheapness knows no bounds. What's the worst thing that could happen? (Don't answer that.)

to be continued...