Letters to the editor

Strings and Sealing Wax

babyslime — Sun, 20 Jul 2014 01:51:52 GMT

I will be slowly migrating away from LJ, not only because I think the golden age of these services is over and I've now seen my original blogging community home go down in flames... but also because I'm fairly certain almost no one reads me here anymore. If you do still read me here, let me know, but if you're not super attached to LJ as a format bookmark my blog-site instead - it has all the same archives and entries and will eventually be expanded to have more as time goes on. It's a permanent home, as opposed to a blog service like this one, which I'm now painfully aware is very temporary in the grand scheme of things.

http://www.babyslime-blog.com/

It feels a little weird to sit down and write things about Tempest’s life and challenges now that she seems to be in the midst of her pre-teen years.
There’s been a major change in her personality over the last six or eight months, and it’s like she’s aged five years over the last one. Suddenly she’s too mature to play with Xan or Zephyra, except on rare occasions; she’s almost never in the house anymore; she’s less shy about showcasing her intelligence and is more and more interested in the finer details of the world around her. She feels like ‘the almost-teenager that lives in the house with us’, and it gives me a rather disconnected feeling, like I’m just as unsure as she is about where she fits in. I can’t group her in with Xan and Zephyra anymore – she’s too much her own person to be one of “the kids”.
This stage of life isn’t proving as challenging as I thought it would be, which can be chalked up to a budding sense of self-confidence and awareness that she never had previously, but it is definitely more… difficult to wrap my head around. Writing about her feels less like writing about my children and more like writing about another person; like how it felt to write about Marika when she was living with us. It’s weird. It’s not so much that I think it’s inappropriate to ever mention her, but rather that she no longer feels like an extension of me the way that “kids” do.

That feeling is doubly weird whenever she approaches me and asks if I’d talked about something funny or interesting that happened to her “online” yet, and if I’d posted enough pictures of her “to my friends” yet and what they’d said. She always urges me to share the mundane things far more often than I normally would, and is very interested in what goes on within my Facebook. Whenever I’m on she’s suddenly needing to ask a million questions that require her to stand right over my shoulder, and is desperate to have her own account (even though she has zero friends who use the service). I think she wants the bragging rights over any other reason.

We went to the Pride festival on July 6th and while I was in the bathroom doing my makeup Tempest came in to ask, “What’s the main colour of the festival?”
“Rainbows,” I answered.
“No, I mean the main colour.”
“Rainbows,” I said again.
She gave an exasperated sigh. “No, mom, I know it’s rainbows but I mean is there a main colour WITHIN the rainbow that… stands out? I need to coordinate my look. My top is rainbow but what about a pink skirt? Does pink go with gay pride?”
“Extremely.”
“Great, thanks.”

And off she goes leaving me a little stunned at how normal the conversation felt; like I’m not speaking with a little child anymore. I find myself talking to her more like an equal than a kid – like I’ve forgotten to put on the ‘mom hat’ that subconsciously goes on whenever you have conversations with your kids, particularly when they’re emotional – and that’s a bit of a weird feeling. It’s not something I consciously chose to do or not do, it just sort of happened as her conversation skills improved. It’s not even all the time… it’s only just enough that I’m starting to notice it more often, and be aware of how weird it feels.

One of the interesting things about having a preteen is that they barely ever live in the house… or maybe that’s just my preteen?
Tempest will get up, eat breakfast, watch her crazy horrible shows on Netflix for an hour (seriously, have you guys ever seen “House of Anubis”? It’s so painful. Oh my god.) and then leave the house to hang out with her friends immediately after finishing. After that I’m lucky if I see her once or twice before dinner.
There’s a rather nebulous group of other pre-teen girls from the community that she hangs out with, and they do nothing but wander around all day long; occasionally picking up new friends from neighbouring communities or streets, dropping a few around lunch time, and going from house to house looking for snacks to feed their crazy insane appetites. It’s like a little tweenie girl gang. Every so often the group piles into our house for about five minutes to grab some freezies, tease Xan or coo at Zephyra before running back out again.

I only recently granted Tempest permission to leave the complex with her little girl gang and visit neighbouring streets or the park down the road. It’s a low traffic area with lots of families, and I’m not at all worried about her safety: she’s surprisingly well-behaved when on her own, or with her little girlfriends, far more so than she is when she’s with me which I’m sure is also a reflection of the importance she puts on maintaining this new-found independence. To her this privilege has been a life-altering symbol of her maturity (and more importantly, her maturity over Xan).
The girls in the group range in age from 9 to 12, and most have also very recently been granted the same freedom. They don’t really do anything with this amazing gift except wander around all day long, quietly showing off to the younger children in the community who aren’t permitted to leave. The younger kids will chase them until coming to a sudden stop at the invisible age wall at the large sign that marks the entrance to the private road, then throw pinecones or loudly pout over the show of dominance the older girls have.

All of them seem to be in the same stage of transition, and rely heavily on each other for social cues and nuance as they learn to navigate their way through preteenhood. Tempest is a mirror and a sponge: her personality and behaviour gradually shift to match the group the more time she spends with them. I don’t think it’s a bad thing – in fact I think it’s totally normal: she’s learning who she is by absorbing and experimenting, finding what suits her and who she’s becoming.
Suddenly fashion has become way more important than it ever was and she spends ages deciding what to wear, how to wear it, and will go as far as changing her clothes multiple times a day or wearing the same things over and over if she likes them enough. She wants to accessorize everything, and can’t get enough of hats and rings and scarves and necklaces. She walked around in 36 degree heat the other day in a scarf and bolero because the suffocating discomfort was a sacrifice she was willing to make for the sake of fashion.
Music has become integral to her day-to-day life, and she cannot function without the knock-off MP3 player my mother got her, and the portable speaker she found in a box marked “free” after a nearby garage sale ended: together they are her most prized possessions. If allowed, she’ll spend hours with her friends crowded around a computer watching music videos of pop music in English, Japanese and Korean and remarking on the deeper meaning, dancing and visual storytelling. She carries one of my old purses and it can often be heard belting out her favourite songs as she wanders about; creating a soundtrack to her life.
A few years back it was a chore to get her to shower once a week and now she’s up every morning even before Z has woken up so she has the freedom to take over the bathroom for an hour. She’s obsessed with the creams and oils I have for skin and hair care and compliments me on my make-up application.

Tempest has always had a bit of a lag when it comes to her emotional maturity, and up until very recently all her good friends have been quite a bit younger than her. Now, all of a sudden, her friends are her age or a year older.
She started wearing training bras largely because she has two friends that do the same. She’s asking a million questions about God and religion because she has a handful of friends who are either Muslim or Catholic and show varying degrees of observance. All of a sudden she’s talking about what she might believe in and how it differs from me, or Curtis or Xan, and discusses it in a way that lets me know what brings her comfort without judgment and I’m just completely taken aback by her awareness of this kind of thing.

Earlier this week she got a pile of jewelry from a yard sale (for free) and some of it included rosaries and some bracelets with images of Mary or Jesus. After I explained to her what it meant to people who are Christian, she decided all on her own that it was disrespectful to wear the icons of a religion you don’t believe in like they’re “pretty” and polled her friends to find out whose family worshiped these things so she could gift it to them appropriately. I was so impressed, and proud, and just stunned… because it seems like this kind of awareness of herself, others, and social graces has come out of nowhere after years and years and years of struggling hard with the most basic concepts.
I’d love to thank myself for this huge growth in awareness and sensitivity, and imagine I’m the most awesome parent ever who managed to get through the fog of Aspergers and reach her in the most effective manner, but I can’t lay claim to that. I try as much as I can but I don’t believe I’ve done anything in particular that made that big a difference… honestly I think this is 99% her own doing. Maybe it’s just a part of growing older, maybe something clicked in her in a very certain way, but whatever it is… it’s changing her. She’s not that struggling, frustrated little girl that she’s been for so long. I’m so proud. And a little lost… not just for the reasons I stated earlier, but because I’ve spent so much of her life devoted to a specific set of goals and rules and ideals and now that she’s made this very sudden switch I’m left a bit stunned. My wheels are spinning and I think it’ll take me a bit for my parenting program to catch up.

It’s getting really weird thinking of her in a pseudo-adult sort of way. She’ll be eleven in August and I’m not entirely sure how she’ll fare as a teenager; I can only pray, and try my hardest, in hopes she’ll be half as close to me as I was to my mom. But in the meantime I can see her pulling away, and am left to wonder it’s just par for the course.

Months and months back I put my foot down about bedtimes: I said I would no longer be reading these mindless, endless Garfield comic books 365 days a year and that if the kids wanted to be read to as they always have been, then from now on I get to choose the book. They can choose to be present, or not, but if they want to listen they have to be respectful, patient and kind. If they get bored they can leave rather than make everyone else suffer the symptoms of their boredom.

Tempest was very excited by this prospect. Xan not so much.

The first choice was “The Hobbit”, and I pulled out the gilded-edge 50th anniversary edition that I’ve had since childhood. This is the same book my father got me when I was young, and we read it more than a dozen times because I begged for him to repeat it so often.

I started reading one evening after dinner with Z on my back, hoping she would fall asleep listening to my voice. I was pleasantly surprised to find The Elders both absolutely ate it up. I knew Tempest would love it, and while I was pretty sure the story would appeal to Xan, he can be so ridiculously stubborn about not getting his way (and losing his nightly Garfield) that I wasn’t sure how it would go over. It was such an emotional, moving experience for me to watch as their hearts soared for the characters and adventures that were such an important part of my youth. I was legitimately excited to watch them get excited. It was so cool to see how they got so into the story so quickly; to see them get nervous, angry, anxious and cheer for victories. At the end I promised them we’d watch “The Lord of the Rings” extended editions over the course of a few weeks. They ate that up, too.
As an eternal nerd, the best part was seeing them go from ‘casual kid nerds’ to total and complete converts.

After we finished the movies, which was amazing in its own right, we started reading “To Kill a Mockingbird” next. I get through half-to-one chapter per night. Xan often falls asleep, and he has trouble following the finer details of the plot – doubly so once we hit the trial – but Tempest is riveted by the story and is asking questions constantly. At least once every other day our reading time is delayed by 20 minutes or more so we can have another long conversation about race, laws, culture, language, prejudice and history.

As the story progresses, we see Jem start to mature and pull away from his younger sister Scout, she doesn’t quite understand him and thinks he’s trying to show off and act more adult than he is. It’s true to some extent, but it’s also a reflection of his transition from childhood to young man, and his growth is a major theme of the novel. I had forgotten about all of that since the last time I’d read it; I’d wanted to read it to them as a way of expanding on our recent conversations about race and prejudice – but the change in Jem and Scout’s sibling relationship and Jem enters his pre-teens and early teens is an eerie parallel to what is happening within Tempest and Xan’s relationship. I don’t think Xan understands it, but it’s clear that Tempest is absorbing the subtext, and sees herself in Jem’s character development.

We passed the mid-point of the book about a week and a half ago, and just a few nights ago finished the trial, and the chapter where Tom Robinson is found guilty despite being very obviously innocent. As the trial progressed Tempest got more and more into the details. The part where Tom is asked to stand, and the condition of his arm is revealed to all, she about jumped out of her seat just like Jem in the balcony, yelling: “He can’t use his arm! He didn’t do it! She lied! She lied!”.
When he’s found guilty anyway, Tempest was crushed. After consoling her, she said, “That wouldn’t have happened if he was white,” and I felt vindicated in the choice to read this despite being told by others that it was clearly ‘too old’ and ‘too much’. I was younger when my father first read it to me. Reading through this, and the questions and conversations that have come up since we began, has done more to help her and Xan understand the deeper effects of racism than any discussion we’ve had previous to it. I’m continually amazed by Tempest’s depth and intelligence.

One morning last month, Curtis learned that Zephyra had figured out how to get herself out of a nearly-six-foot-high fenced yard with a gate latched at the very top. That was a completely terrifying few moments. When I shared this insight on Facebook, my brother quipped, “What took her so long?”.
She hasn’t had an escape attempt in quite a few months now and we thought she had outgrown the most horrific part of toddlerhood, but apparently not. There is now a padlock on the gate with the key hidden in an envelope, and then stuck to a board on the wall in the kitchen, 5.5 feet up. Still, I remain terrified that I’m going to wake up one morning at 7am and realize that she’s backed a bag and left the house in search of bunnies or something.

Since about mid-June we’ve been babysitting Xan’s best friend Efro on weekdays while his mom works. It’s an arrangement that’ll continue until half-way through August. In exchange she’s offered a weekly stipend to help with food costs, and we’ll be figuring out a carpool plan for the next school year since the boys are going to be in the same school/class. It’s been rather fun having him here: he’s a really intelligent, shy, quiet and polite little guy (making him opposite in personality from Xan… yet they’ve been inseparable for years now). The two of them sit and play Magic: The Gathering or argue about Minecraft more often than anything else, and listening to them is hilarious. A few days ago they had a lively debate about copyright law and what constitutes a proper trademark while eating lunch. Each considered himself an expert despite knowing very little about the topics, making the debate all the more entertaining.
The only challenge has been getting Efro accustomed to Zephyra, as he’s an only child and not at all used to sharing a household with a terribly obnoxious toddler. She takes advantage of his discomfort by chasing, spitting, licking and generally tormenting him every chance she can get. I overheard him and Xan discussing this in Xan’s bedroom not too long ago. Efro solemnly admitted, “I think I hate Zephyra.”
Xan replies, “It’s ok, you just hate her actions. Sometimes I hate her actions, too.”
After a short pause Efro admits, “You’re right, I don’t really hate her. But she is really annoying sometimes.”
“Most babies are, but she’ll grow out of it. You just have to remember to close the door when your stuff is in here.”

It was very sweet.

Every time Zephyra gets into his things or drags something out of his backpack, Xan reminds his friend “that’s what happens when you leave it in her reach!” and gently chides him about natural consequences. It’s really cute, and with Xan’s help Efro is learning very quickly how to adapt. Nowadays he doesn’t have as big a problem with her as he did at the beginning, and is much better about remembering to keep his things safe and keep a calm temper with her.

Though it never ceases to amaze me how difficult the concept of if you don’t want her to chase you, stop running is for kids to absorb. Even my kids. I have had that conversation like four times a day for months now.

Toddlers are smart but have poor eyesight; if you stand still they have difficulty tracking you.

I guess she’s more of a preschooler and less of a toddler now that she’s three (!!!). She’s been out of diapers for about a month now; a milestone I’ve been desperate to celebrate not just for the obvious reasons but also because it allows me to start looking into preschool for her come September. Ideally I’d love to have a preschool/daycare set up that allows me to begin the greuling the process of going back to school, but that’s probably not a reality until Z is in Kindergarten because of the costs (both financial, and physical). Daycare is not exactly something that is easily available in this city, and I’ve had Z on multiple wait-lists for over a year and received only one call-back (and it wasn’t about a free spot, it was about whether or not I still wanted her on the list).

Everyone’s been remarking on how big Z has seemed lately. She’s almost completely transitioned from ‘baby’ to ‘big girl’ with the potty learning, though she still nurses a few times a day. This makes her the only child I’ve had that made it to, and past, three years old still nursing. I night-weaned her about four months ago largely because menopause is making my breasts really tender and her sleepy/lazy latch was making me crazy uncomfortable. And also because I’m really sick of waking up and nursing her 30 times a night because she doesn’t just “nurse quietly” at night… she kicks and spins and goes nuts because it’s more stimulating than relaxing for her. Very, very occasionally she nurses to sleep… but we’re talking once a month. My experience with older toddlers (2.5 and up) has been that they tend to sleep better when they’re no longer night-nursing because they use it as an excuse to party.
With the night-nursing gone she only nurses a few times a day: when she first wakes up in the morning, in the afternoon after her nap, and sometimes when she has a cuddle before bed (which she calls her, “cuddle nursey”; this is the only time she actually drinks milk as opposed to just sort of holding my breast for comfort). I don’t think she’ll continue for too much longer, and once she stops nursing she’ll have left the last remnants of her babyhood behind her. It’s all rather bittersweet: I will miss the little lisping toddler who cannot ever keep clothes on longer than a few minutes, but if I’m being honest I also really, really can’t wait for her to be out of the crazy heart-attack-inducing and constant-tantrum-having stage of life.

Any experienced parent will tell you that three year olds are little assholes. Right now she’s really into the, “Don’t talk to me! I don’t like it when you talk to me!” thing when one of us is disciplining her. That’s fun.
Everywhere I go with her people make the, “Wow what a handful!” or, “So much energy” comments and I’ve long ago learned not to take it as an insult. Those comments started with baby Tempest and never stopped. We’re just blessed to get exclusively high-intelligence, spirited, crazy kids and while it’s exhausting and frustrating and crazy-making, it’s also really rewarding seeing their brains work as they grow. People like quiet, obedient kids that don’t get dirty and never forget their manners and have a default setting of “shy and reserved” but that is really never going to be the kind of kids I have. Once I stopped comparing myself to families like that, and imagined they were “better” and I was “worse”, my life got a lot easier, and I learned to be more thankful, and confident (and relaxed).

My mom always said the smartest kids are the toughest to raise, and she’s not wrong. Tempest and Xan have both been tested and have crazy smarts, and if the escape attempts are any indication then Z is following in their footsteps. I do wish I had the disposable income to enrol them in extracurricular activities, brain-testing camps and such, but you do what you can.
We go for walks a lot, when my pain allows it, and the kids talk so much during the walks that I have to enforce a time-limit on each of them and carefully mediate their turns. It goes on like that literally for hours. I’m always amazed at how they never run out of things to say, questions to ask or topics to expand on, and once we’re away from distractions and screens they get so into it that it’s a challenge to keep up with them.

Since I no longer have a functional camera, a family point and shoot (which Tempest broke), or a phone camera that works (the autofocus has been broken for almost two years) the few photos I get that are acceptable are taken with Curtis’ phone when he’s not at work. So I’ve only got a few to share from my Instagram/Tumblr.

This one was taken with ~~a potato~~ my phone; trying to get a quick, inconspicuous shot of Xan and Zephyra’s favourite new game: Battle Baby.
They go out and carefully set up all the Tonka trucks as war machines, haphazardly pieced together out of broken toys and various parts of other trucks/toys that they can find around the house. Then Zephyra sits her butt down one on of the larger trucks at the forefront and calls out, “BRING ME MY WEAPONS!” as Xan supplies her with loaded squirt guns. Then they yell and scream about advancing aliens and Xan creates intricate plot lines and enemy forces for General Battle Baby to fight with a bucket on her head. It’s pretty amazing.

The kids at the Pride festival this year.

LC came to visit for the first time since Xan’s birthday party last October, and it was in the midst of record-breaking heat. We all walked down to the beach to cool off, which was wonderful, even if it took like an hour and a half longer than it should have to walk home.

Left to right: Aaliyah, Tempest, Z, Efro, Xan, Freja.

The real dangers of co-sleeping.

Zism of the day:
While I’m cooking, Z comes running into the kitchen and says, “Mommy it’s way too hot. We need the door to be open!”
“No, no, no! We can’t open doors, the cat will get out!” I say.
But she’s not heading toward the front door. Instead she passes me, opens up the fridge, takes off her underpants, hikes up her dress and sits her bare butt down on one of the fridge shelves and then tries to close the door on herself.
“What are you doing?” I ask her.
“I’m cooling my hot bum. It’s too hot, mom. I just HAVE to be in the fridge right now.”

Z hands me a piece of paper with some random scribbles on it.
“Here.”
“Oh very nice! What is it?”
“A drawing.”
“I know it’s a drawing, I mean what did you draw?”
She looks at me, blinks, then points at a section of it, “I drew my drawing. See? Right there? That’s a drawing.”
“No I mean what’s it a drawing OF?”
Another pause. “Blue.”
“… it’s a very lovely blue drawing.”
“Thank you.”

Tempestism of the day:
At bedtime, Tempest is being obnoxious by repeatedly playing the same notes on a recorder.
“Please put it upstairs!” I tell her. She starts marching up the stairs, punctuating each step with a note on the recorder. “WITHOUT playing it!” I add.
“It’s an INSTRUMENT, MOM. They’re MADE to be played. What do you expect me to do? Just NOT play it?! When you’re holding an instrument, YOU MUST PLAY IT.”

Awkward moment in parenting of the day:
Tempest came up to me in the afternoon wearing a button-down shirt with half the buttons undone and a camisole/bralette underneath and asks, “How many buttons do I need to have done up before you let me go outside?”

My face: ಠ_ಠ

Links of the Day:
A widow’s 4 children are taken by CPS because she left them home alone to go to work – This right here? This is why I can’t put my faith in the CPS/CAS systems. I have friends who work in it, and I deeply appreciate their efforts to be a beacon, but I feel the system has serious flaws and extremely deep problems when things like this can happen. The terrifying truth is that when I’m outside my home I find myself thinking more often about what parenting choices would have the police called on me, rather than what would actually keep my children safe.
Stromae – “Papaoutai” – I recently discovered this French pop artist and… holy man are his songs great. This one in particular, both the music and the incredible video, give me chills. The hook, “Ou est tu papa?” means, “Where are you dad?”, and the title is a bit of a nonsense word made by playing with the beat and the hook together. I speak virtually no French and can follow along only by recognizing one word out of every 3-4 and getting the gist, but you don’t have to understand the lyrics to know what the song is about. The visual story-telling in the video through dance and set are absolutely spectacular. And if you enjoyed that one, watch [ "Tous les memes" ] (“it’s all the same”) next for more fantastic story-telling through video and dance.
Sir Isaac Newton vs. Bill Nye (Epic Rap Battles of History) – If you haven’t discovered the absolute joy that is ‘Epic Rap Battles of History’, you’re missing out. This one is one of my favourites.
10 common carseat mistakes parents make, and how to fix them – Because proper carseat safety needs to be shared, and discussed and seen until it becomes common knowledge.
I was a victim of predatory remodelling – If you’ve never heard of this term, read this man’s terrifying experience and be aware if you’re ever in the market to buy a home.
The pros and cons of transgender children in the public eye – Choice quote: “You can suppress and oppress your child’s authentic gender so you don’t have to worry about what strangers think, but then you have a very anxious child who will be at a high risk for very negative outcomes.”
Because,
“Research shows that allowing children to express their true gender identity from an early age leads to better mental health outcomes down the road, she said. After all, “transgender adults started as transgender kids,”
Dawn of the bionic age: paralyzed man becomes first to use the power of thought to move his hand – Yes, you read that correctly.

Wherefore Art Thou

babyslime — Mon, 16 Jun 2014 08:18:53 GMT

It’s been a very stressful… while. Everything just sorts of blends together, and after a while the constant state of anxiety starts to feel so normal that I forget when it started, or what started it… everything just feels fucked up in one way or another. While I was in the store, an elderly stranger offered the perfect description of this feeling the other day: the days are long, but the weeks are short.

I haven’t wanted to write because I didn’t want to put it all down where I could see it all in one place, look at everything and say, “Hey wow, that’s a lot of stupid bullshit”. It’s been bad enough actually living in it all over the course of months, and even with leaving a lot of shit out it’s a lot to write down; it’s exhausting for me just to read back through this. It’s not like we had life-altering bombs dropped on us (well, I guess we sort of did – but I mean no one got cancer or anything), it’s more that the impact is long, emotional and stretched out over a period of weeks or months and that makes everything that much more draining. It leaves you feeling vulnerable, and sad.

Everything is gradually better and much more stable, though the thing about having shit crash down around you is that it’s going to take a bit to recover from no matter how great things may go afterward. And it’s not like they’re super fantastic right now… just, “not terrible”. You know things are shit when “not terrible” is a goddamn miracle by comparison. Things are stabilizing, but everything feels very precarious; it’s been months since I’ve had a good night’s sleep.

This is long, and rambling, and really personal for the first time in a long while, and so if you make it to the end I applaud you. So hey, here’s where I’ve been for two and a half months…

Far before the most recent things went down, we got news that Xan’s school might be closing. The suggestion was handed down to the parents as a possibility, due to shit government funding and budget crap within the school board. BC treats its schools, teachers and students like shit – this is especially evident during the most recent teacher strikes – so I suppose I should have seen something like this coming… but instead, I was completely blind-sighted.
The issue was broached as a ‘maybe we’ll close the school, or maybe we’ll move it to another building’ thing, and the parents were told that it wasn’t set in stone and plans weren’t made yet, so clearly they could be changed if we could show it was worth it to the board to keep it open. Enrolment was falling for the first time since the school opened its doors more than 40 years ago, and we needed to raise both the student count, and some money, to show it was worth it to keep it open.

So, parents were given a few months of time in which to come up with ideas, set up meetings with board trustees, make contacts and draft proposals. An email list formed overnight, and quickly blew up (far, far exceeding the immediate family of the tiny alumni of 60ish kids). Thousands of emails went back and forth throughout the six or so weeks that went by before the meetings took place. So many parents, and kids, worked so incredibly hard. There were scads of research papers, private interviews with staff and parents that were seen all over the city and the province, radio spots and newspaper articles, TV programs and so many, many, many meetings and ideas and discussions. Even students as young as 6 or 7 came forward with their own ideas and desperately pleaded – at times literally in tears – to make their voices heard. Kids even went up against the board members themselves to speak from the heart about how much this school meant to them. They sobbed into camera lenses as they delivered impassioned speeches they wrote themselves… it was amazing, and deeply moving.

We all poured every tiny piece of ourselves into the hope those meetings gave us to save this school… there were even recent examples of similar situations being brought forward with other schools in the province, which did get saved by this type of brainstorming and planning, so we were feeling cautiously optimistic about it all.

But it was all for naught.

This small and unique school has existed for 41 years and relied entirely on word of mouth for enrolment, and it’s only this last year or so that the numbers have gone down. 41 years of life-saving, small, individualized teaching just gone. poof. Once the news was given, the vote closed, I didn’t stop crying for days.
All the parents were crying, exchanging emails and messages of grief; we feel abandoned, and deeply betrayed. Everyone spent weeks – months – campaigning and brainstorming and planning and there were two official meetings with the board who were voting. The whole point was to show them the other side; show the value and absolute necessity of the school. Several board members didn’t even BOTHER TO SHOW UP AT ALL and in the end we discovered the whole thing had been a farce. The fate of the school had been decided long before they even announced the possibility… the whole planning, brainstorming and meeting shit was just an attempt to ease a few guilty consciences. We’d all been betrayed, used, humiliated and our children taught that their voices don’t matter and their happiness doesn’t count. I’m disgusted, and devastated, and scared about the future.
The vast majority of students there were “refugees” from other schools where they couldn’t function, fell through the cracks, were bullied like my son or were otherwise not cut out for it and for one reason or another weren’t a good fit for home-schooling. These children and their families are extremely vulnerable, and in this place they all flourished to become incredible and motivated learners.

We all feel so lost.

The worst was having to tell Xan. We all had such hope… and watching his face fall from disbelief, to shock, to the most horrible twist of devastation and betrayal; it felt like a knife to the heart. When I first told him about the “might” months earlier, he lay in my arms crying and shaking. I’d never in my life seen him more afraid than he was when he had to consider that the school might close. The absolute certainty was a nightmare for him. He just kept crying and asking, “Where will I go? Where will my friends go?”.

There are so few good, alternative, affordable education options like that one in the city. The vast majority are private schools, the cost of which range anywhere from 5k to 40k a year. This was free and open to all, and had by far the best attitude and curriculum of any public elementary school in the city. When I tried to get Xan to switch over for grade one, they still had a waiting list, which means there’s only been a year or two of “decreased enrolment”. That’s practically nothing… and yet they were willing to throw all these children under the bus for it? Over 40 fucking years and they didn’t even give us the chance to show we could improve enrolment, in spite of the fact that parents ACTUALLY PROVED THEY COULD if given a mere few months to promote it.

It’s been over two months now since the news was final and it still feels like a nightmare I can’t wake from. I keep having to remind myself that, no, it’s really gone. The end of June and this wonderful place and all these wonderful, amazing teachers will be gone. The first principal I’ve ever met to legitimately care about kids and families with many different abilities and limitations; who reaches out and takes the time to individually know each situation and do her best make every person feel heard and loved… gone. Just fucking gone.
Families have tried to stick together in little clumps, scattered around the city’s school system, in a desperate attempt to find something to support their child without sacrificing their health and wellness. A few other parents and I, including the mother of Xan’s best friend, have enrolled our kids in a medium-sized school that seems nice – though a considerable distance from our house. I honestly have no idea how we’ll manage with no car, but we’ll figure something out.

I spent a long time going through the hoops and this one seems to have the best chance of being good for him… but I hated every minute of it. The touring, the discussions, the decision making, the interviewing principals and asking the same stupid questions and getting the same stupid answers. I hate going through the same accessibility song-and-dance with staff that will never care as much as the ones at his “old” school did. As much as I hear positive things about this new principal, I just hated hearing him argue with me – fucking argue with me – over my bringing forward the issue of accessible school performances and his answer essentially being, “Well if we designate accessible seating, people who aren’t disabled might sit in it, so there’s no real reason to try”. They even have a child at the school who is wheelchair-bound, you’d think they’d care a bit more about creating a environment that is positive toward accessibility issues. I get that the building is 100 years old and there’s only so much you can do, but come on, don’t give me that “it’s not worth trying” bullshit.

I hate wondering if Xan will be safe there with his sparkly nail polish, beloved stuffed animals, terminology like, “girl with a vagina” and close friendship about a boy his age who came out as trans last year. I worry about the trans friend himself a lot, and how he’ll fare there after his life was a complete non-issue his last three years in the “old” school. I just talked to his mom last week about it and she was smiling and saying how lucky they’d been that no one had ever said or done a single unkind thing to him about being trans. Staff, teachers, students, other parents… all perfectly wonderful. They all congratulated him when he came out at the beginning of grade 2. Kids didn’t even mention it at home for months because the issue was approached as, “Oh hey, [your friend] is happy and comfortable now and this is who they really are, isn’t that awesome?!”. The school was an oasis – and now it’s gone.

I’m trying to be positive and look forward to new experiences, but I’m devastated, and I can’t keep it at bay. Every time I drop him off or pick him up I’m reminded that it’s one more day at this wonderful school that’s gone forever. I’m torn between wanting to get as involved as possible in these last weeks, or staying far away because I can’t stand to watch such an incredible force of wonder and good slip away with a whimper. This school changed the course of Xan’s entire life for the better; this school has changed so many, many lives for the better.

I wish I could approach every single person who was a part of this decision and say, good fucking job, you assholes. Fuck you so fucking hard. You’ve successfully broken the trust of every family involved with your pathetic toying; you’ve taught our children that they’re worthless, that hard work never pays off and the good guys lose. I hope you fucking choke.

While we were recovering from that blow, in the midst of trying to figure out where Xan was going to land next year, Curtis lost his job very suddenly and without warning. And by without warning I really mean without the tiniest little bit of warning. He showed up for work one day, worked five minutes, then was called in and handed a letter stating he was terminated by the owner. No conversation, no explanation, no “three strike” policy or write-ups or anything. To add insult to injury, there’d been an ad out for his position for two hours before he’d even arrived.
The closest thing he got to a reason was a short paragraph referencing an “incident” allegedly taking place the night before that never even happened. And it’s not like the issue is unclear: other on-duty employees also confirm it never happened. And the thing is, even if it hadn’t been so blatantly made up, the thing wasn’t even a remotely fire-able offence (the short version is, “people didn’t know where you were for approximately 20 minutes and someone could have needed your help, but didn’t” when in actuality he was very literally 15 feet to the left of them). At the worst this is maybe a, “Hey man, did something happen?” conversation, but he didn’t even get the respect of a single question.

He spent more than three years at this job; he absolutely adored it and was really fucking good at it, too. It was completely devastating. After it happened he called me in tears and asked if I could come pick him up in my father’s borrowed car, because he didn’t think he could bike back home while crying. I hadn’t seen him that depressed and defeated in a very, very long time.
I’d love to go into detail, but I can’t, because we’ve already taken the first step with a lawyer and with every passing day there’s a bigger possibility this will end up going to court because the whole thing is shady as fuck. And everything gets all stupid complicated when it involves the law, or suing people and all that… I’m tired of the whole thing already and we’ve barely even started

At the very least, (most of) his co-workers all seemed to see how big a shit pile it all was. When he came in the next day to drop off his keys an employee literally ran right off the line, out of the restaurant, up to the car and had Curtis roll down his window so he could give a small bow, shake his hand and say, “It’s been such an honour and privilege to work with you”. Curtis was this guy’s immediate superior, which makes it all the more moving.

Following this, life was really intensely scary; nothing was opening up and getting illegally fired and worrying that your references won’t bother to pick up the phone because they’re scared for their own necks doesn’t exactly look too awesome on your résumé. You know how they say that the vast majority of working people are one lost paycheque away from homelessness? We’re not exactly the exception to that rule. Without my mom helping out the little that she could, it would have been a lot scarier. Despite what people may think, chefs here don’t make a lot. Managers in the business don’t make a lot. Even his immediate superior, who ran the fucking kitchen for the last decade, barely made $15.50 an hour. BC has the highest cost of living, and rent prices, in the country (with our area at number one within that), and it’s fucking hard as shit to support a family on that income. We balance, and we’re good at it, but it’s not easy. Losing a job without warning, without seeing a penny of your severance pay, is completely. Fucking. Terrifying.

The restaurant market is not that good right now; no one has full time work. I mean, they say “full time” but they don’t actually mean full time… and getting good pay is even harder, as previously stated. Just when we started to get really fucking scared, my dad offered to take Curtis over to the mainland to work with him on a construction project for a family friend. He’s single-handedly rebuilding their entire downstairs and giving them a suite, or something, and he needed the extra help. He’d be gone a week, working full days, but bring home a few hundred when he was done. It’s not like we had a choice to say anything other than, “yes”.

The first night I was by myself, after I’d put the kids to bed and the house had gone quiet, it struck me that while I’ve left a few times for business trips I have not been the one ‘left behind’ by Curtis since I was about 17 weeks pregnant with Tempest. He’d gone to visit his parents, but had to go without me as we could not afford for us both to go. I think he was gone about a week. That was over 11 years ago. It sounds terribly co-dependant to put it in writing, and I suppose it is, but when you’ve spent more of your life together than apart you don’t really have a ‘normal’ that is only about you – nor do you really want it.
The days dragged. It felt like both forever, and no time at all. I clung to routine because it keeps me going down a track from one task to the next with little time to think about the rest, which meant everything went alright up until the evening silence hit and the loneliness became overwhelming. We spent many years of our early relationship apart: long distance relationships suck and we often didn’t see each other for months and months – sometimes nearly as long as a year – all for maybe a few short days together at the end of it all… and it always sucked. I never thought I’d be in a place where seven days felt almost as hard on me emotionally as seven months. Curtis said the same when he got back; it feels different now. He left again the next week following a few days home, after my father gave him endless compliments on his amazing work ethic and swore he’d never had another guy on site in all his decades that worked as hard as Curtis did. It was a nice compliment, and my father isn’t the type to give them away without meaning it.

Curtis hasn’t had that many opportunities to hang out with my dad, just the two of them, so the work ended up being kind of nice for that as well. After it was all over, my dad told me on the phone, “You’ve found a really good man. I’m proud of you. I’m proud of him. I’m really glad he’s in your life”.
“I am too,” I told him.
The day Curtis was fired, when my father found out what had happened, he called me absolutely furious and wanted to talk to Curtis. He’d declined at that time; still too raw and reeling to feel like holding up his side of a phone call, so my father passed the message on to me instead. He went on for a while about how wonderful a person Curtis was, and how we couldn’t just let this go, and how he never deserved to be treated that way after putting what he has into that job, and how loved and appreciated he was by not just my father, but everyone who had ever known him. After we hung up, I was struck by how mixed I felt about it being my father that was the one to call Curtis up to console him, tell him he was proud of him, that he was a good person and deserved better. I was struck by the fact that I’ve never seen, or heard, either of his parents ever even come close to that kind of support. To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever heard them pay him a compliment that didn’t come as part of a joke.
Some days later we were all assembled at the courthouse in support of my sister (which is another story that I will not be telling here) while Curtis was at home watching the kids, and after the day’s events were over my father followed me downstairs to find the paperwork I needed to file an order against my ex-landlord (more on that shortly) and I had the opportunity to tell him how grateful I was that he was so wonderful to Curtis. I told him how much it meant to me – to Curtis – that he was there for him. That it was him before anyone else who called us up and wanted to give him love… and how he’d showed him more care over these years than Curtis’ own parents had shown for him over his whole life. As I spoke, I watched as my father’s eyes well up and his mouth tighten to hide a quiver. He pulled me in for a hug before the tears could fall upon his cheeks and his voice cracked as he whispered, “That’s too bad for them. They’re missing out… he’s a wonderful person.”

Every so often I am reminded of their betrayal, and abandonment, and I am angry all over again. I don’t know how Curtis manages to go through life without feeling that pain all the time; I am so close to both my parents, having them treat me that way would be devastating. When he talks about it, he’s disconnected and detached, and says honestly that he’s not even sure he loves them anymore. I suppose when you’ve lived your whole life with selfish parents, you learn not to depend on them for love and affection. So I guess having it taken away entirely doesn’t feel like too much of a loss; you really didn’t have it in the first place.
I think about them far more than he does – and I’m angry enough for the both of us. Even though I know that they couldn’t possibly know of the emotional pain that he felt upon losing this job, having had no contact with him for years now, a part of me feels all the more angry that they didn’t just spontaneously reach out to reconnect and give their only child a little love in a time of need. Logically I realize how ridiculous that is, but it also brings a whole life of not being there for him into focus and makes it all the more frustrating. I don’t think I’ll ever understand how a parent can be so petty, and mean. I can’t imagine treating my own kids that way over such stupid shit.
I used to have these paranoid thoughts about what would happen to the other, and our kids, if one of us died. I know without a doubt my family would never let Curtis sink into darkness: they’d be at the house, with the kids, taking him out, ensuring he wasn’t alone… they’d never let him slip away. But if the situation were reversed? I don’t know that I’d get more out of Curtis’ parents than a few obligatory phone calls followed by a slow trickle into silence. I’m pretty sure that after all this time they still don’t know my middle name, but I’d put money on the idea that I could quiz my parents about Curtis birth and they’d still get most of the details right.
I’m just glad that they don’t just say they care about him – they make sure their actions count, too. My dad did a lot to help ensure that Curtis didn’t become depressed following this loss, and as much as it sucked being away from him for so long, I’m very grateful for my father’s offers.

After that we got lucky: Curtis managed to find new work not too long after the construction opportunity died out, and from what he’s seen so far the new place seems to be very positive and a really nice work environment. The pay is better, but the hours are not (nor are they guaranteed) which means he’s bringing in less than he was before, so we’re just crossing our fingers that it improves soon so we don’t have to keep trying to tread water.
My legs are tired, and I’d just like to float for a while, just to catch my breath…
It may come as a shock to know that I’m not particularly good with anxiety and stress. Har de har. Once it gets a good, firm hold of me I start to feel that delightful depression-induced agoraphobia creep in, and then the idea of even going for a walk is so exhausting that it takes a day and a half to gather up the confidence to pop down to the store and pick up some fucking toilet paper. Once I accomplish that incredible feat and make it back home I feel drained, exposed, tired and jittery all at once. I don’t want to be around people and have to put on the “hi other people, you may have noticed I’m a person as well” show; make eye contact, or smile, and use my big girl words to communicate things. It’s fucking exhausting.
For me this is always the most difficult part of pulling my way out of a stress hole: the unquenchable desire to stay inside, wrap yourself up in the darkness and forget the rest. It’s easy to characterize it as laziness, but once you’ve started to feel the pull leading you to that place, everything takes effort. Everything from waking up and getting dressed, to eating food that your body needs because you’re hungry, to talking to friends that want to visit (and as much as you’re desperate for it, it’s also completely heart-stopping terrifying). It’s all about the fear by that point; weighing one anxiety-inducing act to another and trying to figure out which one you think you might barrel through today. The more you recognize what’s happening the worse you feel about yourself and how far down the rabbit hole you’ve gone – or “let yourself go” – so the behaviour is self-perpetuating.

We did have a major success with landlady court, so there’s that. As stupid and shitty as that all was, we didn’t actually have to try that hard to win. Twice. I mean, we did try hard… but we honestly could have showed up with absolutely nothing and still won because her tripping over her own bullshit stories was enough to sink her without us being involved at all. I mean really, the last time the judge didn’t even bother looking through our entire evidence package – and she literally said that on the phone (it was a conference call court both times). See, this tends to be what happens when you completely make up shit about people.
Crazy Previous Landlady was served a notice to pay us just under $2000, which she has yet to do (that money certainly would have helped during this whole job business). Fortunately there are things in place to assure we do get payment if she continues to fuck around about it. We gave her several weeks, then served her with a payment order (which she ignored), then gave her another month to change her mind about it before getting all the forms to take her to small claims court and enforce the payment order. Third time’s a charm! To be honest, this is just another thing I don’t want to deal with right now… but I will because we really need the money and fucked if I’m going to walk away from this after wining against her twice. She put us through enough of her power-tripping bullshit that I’m pretty comfortable saying we deserve to be compensated for it.
Once we get the money, after using the majority to pay bills and buy some necessities for everyone, we have a certain amount earmarked for “purchase something silly that we want” with a specific sex toy in mind that we’d normally not be able to get. There’s a sort of wonderfully sweet justice about turning around all the times she’s tried to fuck us over into something we’ll actually use to fuck each other.

Dealing with her was our first time ever going to court about anything, but after so many times just allowing people walk all over us because we’re too afraid to fight back, I think we both have reached a place where enough is enough. I’ve spent so much of my adult life shrinking away from confrontation after abuses because the prospect of standing up to someone who’s been getting away with it for so long is a scary one. I am small and they are big, and I’m afraid that any of my attempts at strength or self-protection would barely count in a fight. I don’t want to be in a room, either literally or figuratively, with a person that’s an old pro at manipulating others into accepting their abuse by believing they deserve it: it’s terrifying. The aggressor has likely spent their lives shoving people like me aside, and I have no experience fighting back against bullies like that.
Winning twice against crazy ex-landlady, and with such ease, gave us both a much-needed boost. Maybe it is possible to fight back against someone with so much more experience, and win. We have three kids now, and it isn’t just about us anymore – we have to protect them from being a part of someone else’s power trip, too. People do awful shit when they think they can get away with it because their victims are too quiet, or too loyal, too afraid, too poor… and I’m tired of it. I don’t want to be afraid anymore, and I want my kids to learn that they should fight back when someone treats them like trash. The job-related court thing has the propensity to be a much bigger deal if it goes that far (not to mention considerably more expensive: a significant problem), which makes it ten times more frightening, and confusing, and bewildering and worrying… but we have the support of a lot of people behind us and the least we can do is try. Really try.

Though if I’m being completely honest, every step closer we take to it kind of makes me want to curl in a ball and lock the doors. It’d be nice to say I’m a super brave, powerful, confident woman who always faces her problems head-on and is amazing at confronting her bullies, has witty come-backs, and never looks at explosions… but I’m not. Not even close. I’m an obsessive, neurotic, anxiety-ridden person who barely qualifies as an adult that secretly wishes her mom was still making all the important phone calls.
But, you know, baby steps.

At the very least, the kids didn’t seem to pick up on the worst of all this; we even managed to hide the job loss situation from them for over two weeks before they started to catch on. Though I can’t give us much credit for that, as they’ve barely been inside at all for the last month and a half. They’ve spent more time outside playing (and away from screens) than they ever have before – it’s actually really fantastic. Ever since we moved into the new place last October, Tempest has spent every waking moment outside in the community. Even getting her to come in for dinner is like pulling teeth. Xan… not quite so much. It’s only been this last month or so that he’s started to really enjoy being outside playing, and has finally stopped trying to come in every hour to ask when he can play video games again. This coincides with him finally learning how to ride a bike, which is a crazy story and so outrageously Xan that we’ll be re-telling it for years.
We’ve been trying to encourage him to practice riding for years and years, but unfortunately patience is not Xan’s strong suit. Practicing, and the idea of ‘trial and error’, is like his fucking kryptonite and he can be ridiculously dramatic when it comes to taking on any task that won’t provide instant gratification. Whenever we suggested, pleaded, ordered, bribed or whined at him to try riding he’d adamantly refuse (or try for about one minute before stopping) and always gave the same excuse: I will ride my bike when I’m older and I know how.
I’ve spent so many hours having the, “skills are not learned like magic” conversation with him that I’m surprised he doesn’t already have it memorized. Learning something always requires practice and you have to fail before you succeed, blah blah blah. I used examples from my life, from Curtis’ life, had Tempest try to talk with him, had him watch Tempest try and fail at various things and see how her hard work paid off (because bullheadedness is something she’s very good at), I even used examples from video games he’d learned and improved at over time… but no. He was having none of it. He was obstinate: we could not get him to budge an inch on this issue. Over and over again it was always the same answer, “I will not try to practice biking, because I’m waiting until I’m old enough to know how“.

So once the weather shifted away from the endless grey shroud we call “winter” on the coast, we brought his bike back out (with the training wheels) and once more started in on the gentle (and sometimes not so gentle) urging to get him to try again. One afternoon in April he begrudgingly agreed to give it another shot. He sat on the bike for less than one minute before putting on a big show of how frustrating and impossible it all was, adding in a few truly pathetic “I can’t possibly use the pedals” moves and then bemoaning the existence of hand-brakes. His fake cry is like claws on a blackboard to me, so once he started that crap I was also feeling done for the day. Before I went back inside, I suggested that maybe he’s finally “old enough” to try practicing without training wheels, adding that if he asks real nice he might convince Curtis to help him out. Curtis flashed me his best, “Thanks for nothing” glare as he grabbed the toolbox; then gave Xan another lecture about practice, trial and error and the merits of failure as he worked to remove the training wheels. Curtis adjusted the handlebars and seat, Xan’s helmet, Xan himself, and found a nice clear stretch of sidewalk to set up for the first-ever proper biking trial run. Xan seemed wary of the whole idea, but Curtis assured him that he’d be right there holding on to the back the whole time, and they’d go through the whole process together. He meant it too – he had no intention of doing the classic, “oh wait I tricked you, now you’re riding on your own” thing with Xan, because if he was caught doing it Xan would probably crash into a wall and then complain about the ruse for he rest of his natural life. After considerable pleading Xan finally made his way onto the bike, moping all the while. I was inside by this point, but could still hear bits of the “life doesn’t work like magic” conversation floating through the open kitchen window.

45 seconds later – not even fucking kidding you, it was under a goddamn minute – and Curtis walks back in the house, throws his arms up in the air and goes, “Well. That’s over!”
My shoulders sank: I anticipated another theatrical Xan-style tantrum about how he’ll never learn, ‘in a million, million years’. I looked to the door and waited for Xan to come crawling in after Curtis any second now, fumbling about on hands and knees crying crocodile tears about a scrape or maybe the idea that he might get a scrape…
I sighed at Curtis and said something to the effect of, “Oh my god, really?“.
He shook his head. “No. It’s just the opposite. I held up the bike, he got on, I told him to try pushing the pedals and he took off right out of my hands. He went all the way to the end, turned around and came back, then did it all again without so much as a wobble. He just… could ride–“
And then, in unison, “–Just like magic.”
I went outside to witness the miracle myself and sure enough there he is, biking in big circles, going over bumps, waving with one hand, smiling this crazy smug little smile. “See?” he said, “I told you! I just had to wait until I was old enough to know how.”

And he wore that shit-eating grin the whole damn day while he biked around with ease, keeping up with Tempest like he’d been doing this as long as she had. By the next afternoon Tempest reported (or tattled, as it were) that he was now doing “tricks” like biking down the steps out of the courtyard and bouncing about on a single wheel. And for anyone who is wondering, there is absolutely no way he did this on the sly – this is so very, veryXan. He was telling people about this feat for weeks – anyone who would listen to him, even strangers in the store if he could find a good enough segue into the conversation. The next time we saw my mom he came tearing into her flat all excited going, “Guess what? I learned my bike LIKE MAGIC just like my mom and dad said was impossible. But it wasn’t. Because MAGIC.”

He’s going to be telling this story until he’s 65, and we are never, ever going to live this down.

Summer has come in rather suddenly, and that makes everything seem a little easier. I love the warmth, the sun, being outside and seeing my kids have such a good time playing. I love the long hikes and trips to beaches and forests that we can do in the summer with much more comfort and ease. We’ve had absolutely spectacular weather for over a month, and all the kids around the community are starting to celebrate with water gun fights and playing outside until parents have to literally drag them back in as the stars are coming out.
I know I’ve said it before but I need to keep saying it: in spite of all the trouble it caused, I’m really glad we moved, because this area is wonderful and the community is amazing. I love seeing all the kids playing out there together. I love hearing Tempest come in and tell me stories at the end of the day. I love seeing the kids playing out there by themselves instead of having parents on their heels every second of every day. I love seeing all these kids really be kids: trip and fall and sometimes get scrapes, have arguments and resolve them, experiment with ideas and have fun, and all the while everyone’s looking out for each other. I’ve brought an injured or upset kid back to their house, or applied band-aids to kids I’ve never seen before, and I’ve had the same done for mine. I’ve had a pack of kids show up in my kitchen and given out freezies or diced mangoes, and had mine come home after a few hours outside with a handful of strawberries they got from a neighbour. Never once have I thought, “OMG where are these kids parents?!” but rather, “Isn’t it wonderful that we are all parents looking out for each other’s kids?”.
All it takes to be part of a village without being an asshole is to just ask each kid, “Make sure it’s ok first!” and wait 30 seconds while they go ask. It’s really, really nice to be somewhere that maintains that “it takes a village” mentality with trust and care, rather than snottiness and superiority. When I do see parents outside, they’re smiling and waving, and no one’s yelling at random kids for things that kids do. I sometimes see adults correct behaviours, or gently talk to kids who are getting out of line (including mine – because they all do from time to time), but no one’s being an asshole about it and is instead treating other children the way they’d treat their own… and that rubs off on the kids themselves, too.

Last week a new boy joined in the games; he’d just moved from Turkey and his grasp of English wasn’t too great… so apparently all the kids have been working to teach him English every day and help him understand the games. How cool is that? Hell, Tempest has come in a few times with a friend and told me phrases in Arabic that her friend taught her after moving here with her family from Egypt. There is so much diversity here in terms of language, religion, games and experience and the kids are all so eager to share it with each other. I hope it stays this way, and it always feels this nice to be here. As depressed and isolated as I feel when I’m holed up in here with my stress and anxiety, it never fails to make me smile to look out the window and see all these kids all playing with each other, teaching and learning and making awesome memories. Six months of this place has done more for Tempest’s social and language abilities than years of OT and PT ever did. She’s making friends easily, communicating well, and the questions and ideas that come out of her mouth lately are blowing my mind with their depth and curiosity. I am continually impressed by the person becoming. It makes it a little less scary to think about her going into middle school in September. I’m still worried – I don’t think I could ever get to a place of being only excited and positive about the idea of her entering the part of life that almost killed me – but with how much she’s progressed in the last year or so, I have much more confidence that she’ll get through it with less scars than I did.

I haven’t taken many photos over the past few months, and the few I did I lost after I tried to uninstall a program in Parallels and for whatever reason it completely wiped my computer. Not even kidding. I felt curling up and dying when I realized what had happened. Thank god I had a recent-ish backup on my Time Capsule that I could restore from. I didn’t lose much, only a few entry drafts I’d been working on and about 10 photos, which I had to re-download off my Facebook (thank god I’d posted them somewhere). It could have been so much worse. Back up your shit, people; you never know when some random program is going to erase half your computer because fuck you that’s why.

These may be the last photos I post for a long, long time unfortunately. My camera seems to be dead. I’m really really worried it’s not coming back, and obviously I can’t afford to get it fixed (or buy a new body. Ha!), so that’s depressing. If you pray, you can pray that my camera is just being really eerily moodily and will one day soon miraculously come back from the brink of death so I don’t have to watch my only livelihood get thrown in the trash! Hooray! Alright, happy photos are more interesting than depressing bullshit, so here you go…

First some sleepy photos from ages ago

When I went in to take Xan’s photo, Serendipity was camped out on top of him as part of her nightly vigil. As soon as she saw me she came over to investigate, but didn’t roam far enough to truly leave his side.

Xan fell asleep reading a fact book I picked up for him the other day at a rummage sale.

Before I leave the room, Serendipity watches me go from the highest point in the room.

She then decided she’d follow me from room to room as I sneaked around trying to be as quiet as possible while she nipped at my heels and, “Prrt!”-ed all the way through.

Zephyra

Goddamnit, cat.

Tempest, whom I don’t expect to allow me the opportunity for many more pictures like this. She’s not exactly a little girl anymore.

Making merengue cookies, and giving the kids the bowl to lick. Xan left the majority for Z, just to be nice, and she went into the bathroom to grab her potty stool and just went to town on that shit.

Xan came back in in to join her for photos. Note the cookie batter mustache.

This, of course, required a bath afterward to get rid of the batter hair problem. Serendipity was most intrigued by this activity and spent the entire time trying to swipe the bubbles. There were several points where I was almost certain she was going to fall in.

I don’t get many of Tempest anymore; she’s too busy to pose and is starting to feel awkward, so images like these are special.

She’s looking more and more like a teenager and less like a little girl. 11 in two months! MIDDLE SCHOOL!

As a way of battling her camera shyness, she decided to pick up D’Argo and have him join her. He tolerated it, but wasn’t exactly thrilled.

It is cute how they “match”, though.

Zephyra playing out in the garden before we mowed down all the dandelions (much to her dismay).

“I’m hiding! You can’t see me!”

I cut off her shaggy hair shortly after that set was taken, and took a few pictures of the resulting ‘do once she got settled on the couch with her lunch.

A brand new litter of bunnies started nosing their way out from underneath the side of our house about a week and a half ago. When they’re this big, they’re always amazingly affectionate and curious. The kids from all over the complex flock to them and just sit in a semi-circle on the ground, around the hole, and wait for the babies to come out and explore. It takes very little to coax them; sometimes just a little scratch of a finger on the ground and they bound out ready to pounce. It’s hilarious and endearing. They crawl all over the kids with no fear at all, and it’s amazing to see.

Tempest’s lap:

Xan’s lap:

And a few of Zephyra playing in the back the night before the camera died for good. At least the last photos I got were of my kids.

Zism of the Day:
Z asked for paper to draw on, then proceeded to violently poke holes in it with a pen. After a few minutes she held it up for me.
“That’s… very nice. What is it?”
“IT’S A PUNCH IN THE FACE.”

Links of the Day:
The day I left my son in the car – This is a compelling, well-written and thought-provoking article about the cultural shift toward overprotective parenting and the pressure to be a helicopter parent even when you know it’s uncomfortable… because the fear of facing societal consequences is far greater than the reality of your child becoming injured from a few unsupervised moments, or experiencing independence. Reading this woman’s account really makes a frightening point about how easily a family can be destroyed, and a real horrible fear of being “Taken by the police” instilled in children over absolutely stupid shit that was never an issue 25-35 years ago, and still shouldn’t be today (especially considering that our world is *safer*, rather than more dangerous, and this has been proven time and time again).
Female-named hurricanes kill more than male because people don’t respect them, study finds – This is not The Onion, but it sounds like it should be.
This is a generic brand video – Designed to sell stock footage in a humorous way, and ends up being the most hilariously brilliant take on a “generic commercial”.
A gentleman’s guide to rape culture – With killer misogyny in the news a lot lately, this kind of primer should be required reading for all men.
Daughter’s career dreams linked to dad’s share of housework – Actions speak louder than words, and if your male partner fairly divvies up the household tasks, your daughters are much more likely to pursue career and life choices that are typically considered more “male”. Boys were not affected, unsurprisingly. [ PhD in Parenting ] has more on this study, breaking it down beyond just the headline.
Raising a Moral Child - A fascinating article that explores how and when to instil lessons of morality and kindness into children, and how lasting the effects are. The theories are led by recent psychological evidence, and make a lot of sense. I know that for me, after reading this, I’ll be changing the way I communicate praise to my kids.
Teaching good sex – This is a long read, but absolutely fantastic. It’s an in-depth article about the sex ed program in a high school and how it affects the children who take it. The class is taught by an openly gay, practicing Catholic male teacher with a masters in human sexuality. He teaches not just the standard STI/safe sex, but how to have and enjoy relationships, communication, good sex, bad sex, consent, pornography, slut-shaming, advertising, homosexuality, trans* issues, masturbation, female pleasure and orgasms, sexual objectification, society and how sexuality is intricately woven into our world… and the kids are completely changed by it. It’s really an incredible approach – and (no surprise here) it works amazingly well. The kids don’t just get an education about safe sex, they also get an incredible arsenal of life and relationship skills and learn how to approach sex and relationships in an entirely new (and respectful, open, communicative) light. Kids who took the class more than a decade ago still talk about how much it influences their lives as adults.
It’s really too bad this isn’t the standard approach to sex ed for high school students everywhere, because the improvement it makes on teens’ (and adults’) ability to navigate sex and relationships for the rest of their lives is absolutely incalculable.

I mean really how many copies of the newsletter do I need

babyslime — Wed, 26 Mar 2014 23:02:24 GMT

In the spirit of trying to write more posts, even short ones, when I have something I want to talk about rather than waiting a month to putt it all together…

You know what's really damn annoying about having kids of various ages in different schools? Getting those mass "class emails" with special dates, notifications, general information or reminders about schedule changes with ABSOLUTELY NO CLUES about whose class or even what school its from. This is doubly annoying if all the notes and emails are from a "class rep" or PTA member who just signs all of them with shit like "janet" (sometimes teachers do this too: sign the email with only their first name, as if I'm supposed to know that. I met you once, for ten minutes, four months ago!).
This was especially ridiculous when we had Marika, and were getting regular emails from the high school, Tempest's elementary school, and Xan's preschool all at the same time. I mean I'd get this random shit like 9 times a week. Remember that there's swimming on Friday! There's a book order form due two days from now! The mysterious 'term project' should be handed in on Thursday! There's an emergency early closure tomorrow at noon so make sure to pick up your kids no later than 12:08 otherwise we'll call CPS! Also there's a lice check tomorrow morning performed by uneducated clods who can't tell the difference between eggs and dandruff and we only stock latex gloves that we'll never change between checking heads so fuck you and your kid's severe latex allergy!

Or you know, something like that anyway.

Sometimes the class rep/PTA people even email from their husband's accounts, or their work accounts, which makes things even worse! So just when you thought you'd remembered that the mysterious "janet" is from your son's 3rd grade class, now you're getting emails from "Mike in accounting" about a fucking lice check tomorrow morning and make sure your girls' hair isn't in braids and you've got two braid-loving girls in two different schools so WHO THE FUCK DOES THIS APPLY TO?! Asking your kids gets you nowhere because no matter what the question they all respond with this glassy-eyed stare and half-hearted shrug.

If you take the risk of emailing "janet" and asking which class this is for, you can expect one of three things to happen.
One: you get a response at 12:36am on the day of the event, which is an email you just so happen to miss because you were passed out in front of a Netflix binge of "Orange is the new Black".
Two: you get a passive-aggressive email that, while it does let you know whose class its from, also gives you a healthy dose of, "omg, what kind of mother really doesn't know the name, email address, marital status and child information of every class rep, PTA member and their dogs? omg bad mom alert jesus" and you get a tongue-clucking by half the parents during pick-up hour for the next four months. This effectively defuses any desire to ever email and ask this question ever again.
Three: you get no response at all because your email was sent to Janet's "Mike in accounting" address and the message is delegated to his junk folder because no one at his work knows what the fuck you're talking about.

No parent of multiple children is going to memorize the first name and email address of every goddamn person who ever wrote a notice about class, ever. We are busy enough people as it is, and some of us even hold down part or full time jobs on top of it all. The fact that we remember to wear pants when we leave the house is practically parade-worthy.
The simple solution to this would be to put, "Message from Mrs. Everyonebutyouknowsmyname's grade 2 class" in the subject line, but CLEARLY THIS IS TOO FUCKING HARD A CONCEPT. The only time I ever see this courtesy is in messages from the principal herself, and generally those are sent directly to you because your kid did something embarrassing like draw pictures of what he saw when he came sneaking into your bedroom at 2am last Friday.

And do not even get me started on this issue when they get into high school, and now have six teachers, two class aides per block, a principal, vice principal, assistant principal, school counsellor, guidance counsellor and medical staff emailing you various crap 20 times a week alongside all the paper garbage they bring home stuffed in the bottom of their backpack and covered in yogurt, reminding you about the 200 fundraisers going on that month. Which of course they forget about until it starts to rot and creates a puzzling aroma that stinks up one side of their bedroom for the next six months. You'd be happy to take care of this serious lapse in personal hygiene for them BUT OMG STAY OUT OF MY ROOM HAVE YOU EVER HEARD OF PRIVACY JESUS CHRIST.

Alright I'm done.

Overdue and rather inadequate

babyslime — Fri, 21 Mar 2014 18:23:26 GMT

Eventually I'll learn to journal regularly again. One part busy, one part embarrassed (for not writing enough), one part forget and one part lazy.

The last month has been a ridiculous amount of medical crap, even for our family. When you live with any chronic illness or disability, medical crap and drama is par for the course and you come to expect that it'll be a part of your life forevermore so you develop a tolerance for it… but even that tolerance was being pushed by the end of this. Not so much because of the amount but just the stress levels in general.

Xan has been experiencing infrequent migraines since he was a preschooler, and we've taken him in to the doctor, and been referred to specialists for tests, quite a few times in the last years. We did the whole dietary thing, we did the allergy thing, we did the celiac thing, we even got referred for CF testing at one point. Nothing ever gave us any real answers as to why he'd get persistent and very severe headaches and stomach-aches. Some readers suggested abdominal migraines as an explanation for the mysterious stomach-aches going on at the same time… and ended up being spot on. I'd never even heard the term before, nor would I have known to ask about it. This is one of the many reasons why blogging and having online community support can be an amazing thing: you can tap into a knowledge base that is far bigger than your own, and sometimes you can get hints or ideas that never would have occurred to you otherwise and end up making a big difference. And now we finally have a real answer for his stomach problems. And while, no, it doesn't give us any magic potion to make it all better… it is a huge relief knowing where it's coming from, that it's not something really serious, and that we can start various treatments in attempt to prevent or lesson the impact.

He had his worst episode ever about a month ago: it started as a little headache and quickly grew. We threw everything we could at it (and him being a child that meant little more than tylenol or ibuprofen) and it just kept going. He ended up staying home from school for several days while the headache pain went up and down until we ended up taking him to the emergency room. The worst day by far was day 3, while we were still convinced he had contracted some sort of flu and this headache business was merely a symptom of it. He was unable to even get out of bed for eight hours, and for Xan that's a major deal. Getting him down for dinner took two people, and after a few bites he started crying. When pressed, he explained, "I'm so hungry, but it hurts my head to chew". We took him in after that.
… and just like magic, his days-long migraine disappeared after two hours in the E.R. I saw it coming (or leaving, as it were), but I pressed on in hopes of having tests done or merely having him seen by someone after all this horrible pain. But alas, all we got was a pat on the head and the invaluable advice of, "give him a tylenol", after all the stress. Thanks a lot, asshole doctor, that was super fucking helpful.

After that failure I pushed our doctor for a referral and he saw a paediatric neurologist in very short order. Part of that may have had to do with the fact that our family doctor had not seen a case of childhood migraines, "in 35 years". Wonderful. As if I needed more reason to think of you as an old fogey.
The neurologist was much more helpful, and after a half hour of exams and questions, she quickly gave him the "official" diagnosis of childhood migraines. With abdominal migraines to boot. From there we were given a long sheet suggesting of various trials of meds and vitamin supplements to help control the frequency and intensity of the migraines, and an order to come back in six months to see how it all goes. We've already started him on some, but it's hard to tell if it's working or not because his attacks are reactively infrequent (at least by my perception). The best we can do is continue to document and try and see if any of the suggestions help the next time he's actually hit hard with one.

Coincidentally, I was also in the E.R twice with the most horrific head pain I've ever experienced. It did not feel like a migraine headache; it felt like piercing, horrible icey pressurey pain. Never in my entire life have I felt something like that. It woke me up early one morning and was so intense that I couldn't stand up or walk properly, and ended up vomiting throughout the day from the pain. Eventually it got to the point where I couldn't keep water down, was horribly disoriented and could not stop crying. I took a massive dose of pain medication and it did absolutely nothing. I was becoming very afraid.
Curtis took me to the emergency room in the early evening and the staff and doctor who treated me were all amazing and kind. They were low on room and so had to put me on a bed off to the side of a hallway, but when I was first admitted and they realized how bad the pain was (by that point I couldn't open my eyes) I was moved to a dark, quiet area, given ice water and a cool cloth, and was treated really promptly.
In the end they hung 6-7 bags that included anti-nauseants, anti-inflammatories, tons and tons and tons of fluid (I was very dehydrated) and a massive dose of antibiotics. After a metric fuckton of tests the doctor surmised that since I had just recovered from an extremely bad autoimmune flare-up, my kidney function had likely been compromised (leading to extreme dehydration, as well as other issues), which is what led to the head pain. He said I was likely developing the infection before, but the flare-up just pushed it over the edge and completely fucked my kidneys. After a few hours I was sent home with a script for antibiotics, and the doctor made it very clear that I should return immediately if the head pain comes back and not to fuck around.

The next two mornings the same pain woke me up again. Just as bad. Just as severe. No meds would even touch it… and then it would spontaneously go away on it's own about 5 hours later. I was also having severe, persisting kidney pain that was only getting worse as the days (and antibiotics) went on. Curtis was working late on those days, and because of the huge stressful hassle that is trying to find childcare for all three of my children, I put off going back to the ER in hopes that this was just some sort of lingering effect that would diminish over time.
It didn't. It just kept getting worse. By day 3 the kidney pain was so bad I could barely walk around, and called my dad to ask if he could take me to the ER. I texted Curtis and he almost immediately found a way out of work, and arranged to have the kids watched by our friends. He ended up meeting me at the hospital when I was dropped off by my dad's partner.

This hospital visit did not go as smoothly as the previous one, to the say the least.

It took almost seven hours to be seen, and the doctor who was on duty was a complete fucking asshole. After seven hours of no conversation or my questions being answered, I ended up approaching the desk and asked if they knew how much longer it would take to talk to the doctor, or if my test results had come back showing anything (they'd taken blood/urine when I first arrived). I explained that I was having trouble holding up due to my AS, adding that I'd been ordered to return ASAP if the symptoms of the original problem returned (and made to believe this was serious business). The doctor happened to be standing nearby and without warning absolutely lost her shit at me, snapping, "This is an emergency room and you are not experiencing an emergency". She accused me of drug-seeking (not once did I request or even mention pain medication - I just wanted answers) before finally exclaiming that she was done with me and my remaining choices were, "You can either wait until midnight to see the next doctor or you can get out because as far as I'm concerned, you're discharged!" then she threw whatever she was holding at a desk and stalked off.

I was so emotionally and physically drained by that point that I was in tears. I was exhausted from the non-stop pain and the previous flare-up, my body was in horrible spasm from missing my afternoon dose for the purpose of getting help, and all I wanted to do was go home. I felt confused, and angry, and humiliated.
All the stress and fear from the last few days just spilled out inside of me, and when I returned to the little room with Curtis waiting I was openly sobbing. He'd not witnessed the exchange but heard that something had happened (she had been rather loud), and was furious. I begged him to just leave with me right then and not push the issue, but he was on a mission by that point. I went out and waited by the front entrance for my father to pick us up while Curtis approached the desk and requested to talk to a supervisor or some equivalent. When he explained what had happened, the woman seemed unsurprised (in an acceptable way - as in, they'd had problems with this particular doctor before), and told him to please make an official complaint. She gave him in the information, apologized profusely, and said that if we could stand to wait another hour or two the doctor who attended me the first time who had been so lovely would be coming in. I was so beyond done, physically and otherwise, that there was no way we could wait that long; my body couldn't take it. Curtis thanked her for the information, and quietly added, "She needs to be somewhere she can be cared for, and that place is no longer the hospital," and left.

I don't need his protection, but sometimes it feels nice to get it, and despite my initially not wanting to stir up any more shit I felt relieved knowing he'd stood up for me when I was unable to do it for myself.

The head pain didn't return the following morning, but my kidneys continued to hurt for almost two weeks - long past the end of the antibiotic regime. I was so run down from the ER experiences that there was no way in hell I wanted to try doing it all over again, so I just took the pain and tried to do as little as possible in hopes it would eventually stop on its own.
I try to never ever go to the ER for pain related shit and this is exactly why. When I got home after the second hospital visit our friends James and Adena were watching the kids. James has CF and had his second double-lung transplant not that long ago, and I know he and Adena understand better than anyone how fucked up and nasty the system often treats chronic illness and pain patients. And with that in mind, it was nice to cry on the shoulder of friends who really get it.

Z is finally beginning to outgrow her escape attempts, thank the fucking lord, because I was running short on the means to effectively baby proof the house. She hasn't tried to get outside or get into something major in about a month and before that her incidents of major mischief was becoming less frequent.
She has been the most difficult and insane toddler I have raised, bar none. We joked for years that baby Tempest was incredibly cunning and the most mischievous toddler but seriously Z has taken the top spot and then run with it. I've had more heart stopping moments with her than with the other two combined. God forbid I cook, clean or poop because she has her timing down well enough to create horrible disasters inside a minute and for a while there it seemed like the only solution was to leash her to my leg 24/7.

While the escape attempts have almost disappeared she's still causing trouble in other ways. For example, she was almost completely potty learned and then spontaneously gave it up about two weeks later and now we're starting from scratch all over again. It is immensely frustrating to have success so close that you not only touched it, but were able to actually relish in it for a little bit. I am so done with diapers. Right now her favourite trick is to take off her diaper and then poop on the floor. This will almost always be followed by her taking a hand and saying, "I need to go poop on the potty", which results in an excited - and ultimately unsuccessful - visit to the bathroom, and it's only after you've spent a good three and a half minutes cheerleading her elusive bowel movements that she'll finally admit that she didn't have to go at all and really meant to say, "I did need to go five minutes ago but as you'll see by the exceptionally large pile of shit next to the couch, this is no longer a problem for me".

She finds it all very amusing and apparently quite a jolly good time as she does this at least once every couple of days, and sometimes multiple times in a single day. Goddamn toddlers.

At least she's cute. My mother used to say "cute is a survival mechanism" and she's not wrong.

I've noticed lately that Z almost exclusively plays with Xan, rather than Tempest. A big part of this is that Tempest is reaching an age where "playing" that way is just not cool and therefore she won't do it, and another big one is that she simply doesn't understand Z's methods of play. Xan easily falls into pretend-style playing, and legitimately enjoys acting out silly scenarios and laughing as Z fumbles her way through them, whereas Tempest has never been able to get into that. She just… doesn't get it. Even when she was very small I very rarely saw her play pretend, and the times she did seemed off somehow. It was one of the first signs we saw as 'off', and understood as part of autism. It's hard to tell if her lack of play with Zephyra that's a personality thing or an autism thing, but either way it separates her from Z in a very big way. As a result, Z has bonded a lot with Xan over the last few months and very little with Tempest. To be honest, I don't think I've seen them "play" together unless Tempest is actively trying to teach her something, which does not happen often at this point. It doesn't seem to bother any of them, so I don't push it, but the question lingers at the back of my mind every day and it makes me wonder if I should. Should I force Tempest to play more with Z so that they become closer… or should I do my utmost to respect that Tempest is fundamentally very different and they may not ever be close as sisters? I am watching the foundation of their entire lives unfold before me, right here in the living room, and I can't figure out which is the better option: forcing, or allowing.
Tempest is not an emotional being: in her 10 years, I have heard her say, "I love you" a handful of times… and all were prompted by us. As she got older, and learned to speak on her own volition instead of in response to prompts from her parents, she never said it again. Last week as she completed her nightly ritual of "hug and kiss" before bed, I said "I love you" the way I do every night and she responded with her usual silence… except this time I added, "when your family says, 'i love you', the polite thing to do is to say, 'i love you too'," and she asked, "Why?". I don't know if it's good or bad that I'm not at all bothered by this. Friends have commented, "that must be hard," but it hasn't been - this is just the way she is, and that's okay with me; she shows love and attachment in her own ways, and I have learned to see and appreciate that.

But then we get into situations like this, like with her sister, and I start to question myself and wonder if I should be forcing her into actions she is not naturally comfortable with for the benefit of Z's future. Will they grow to resent me if I force them together? Will Z resent me if I stand by and do nothing to "encourage" their relationship? Will they still be okay in 18 years if they were never even remotely close as kids? I don't want any of my kids to have the kind of relationship my brother and I did, or do - though no piece of that has a bit to do with my mother - but I am plagued by the thought that they will as a result of my inaction.
It's impossibly hard to be a parent witnessing a permanent relationship growing that has the potential to be negative, and wonder what your role should be. If it should be at all. Things like this make you question your ability to parent entirely. Sometimes I don't even think I'm cut out for this.

Quotes of the Day:
Z came and begged for a nurse, and I asked her to wait a bit, and she had a mini tantrum and for some reason went upstairs and complained to Xan about it. His room is right over the livingroom, so I can hear them talking. Xan consoles her for a moment, and then I hear him start coaching her :
"No no, you have to ask quietly. And make sure you say please. Look cute. Yeah, like that. Now go, try that!"
She comes back down and clasps her hands together, and says very quietly, "Please. Nursie. Please... mama, please."
"I hear you asking nicely, but you'll have to wait just a bit."
She runs back upstairs. "Xan, mommy say no!"
"Were you cute?"
"I cute!"
"Hmm. I don't know, you may have to wait. Want me to read to you?"
"... okay".

While I'm reading to Xan, Z comes up onto the top bunk and asks very sternly, "I nursie?"
"Nope, you'll have to wait."
"I NURSIE!" she yells.
"No, you wait!" I jokingly call back.
"YOU NURSIE ME!"
"No nursie you!"
"YOU NURSIE ME IN MY FACE!"
"What!?"
"... please?

Z comes up and gooses Xan while they were playing.
"I got your bum!" she says.
Xan replies with the utmost seriousness, "No way, you can't touch my bum. My bum is for display only".

When taking a late night walk with the kids, Xan tried to leave the house with only a rain slicker, but with significant urging he begrudgingly agreed to put on a thicker winter coat. Two minutes out and he's shivering, complaining about the cold and begging me to zip it up.
I got down on a knee to do up his coat and said, "See? Mom did have a point about the cold after all."
After a pause he sighs deeply, reaches forward and pats my head twice and then says, completely deadpan, "Yes. You were right. Is that better?"

Smartass.

Links of the Day:
Baby dies while sleeping in car seat - Car seats are for cars; not for sleeping, not for carrying, not for moving about. They're designed for short term use by babies, just for transport... babies sleeping/kept in seats suffer oxygenation problems that can lead to really serious problems, and death. The baby in this story was 15 months - not a newborn. Please, please leave carseats in cars. If you can babywear, invest in a safe and comfortable carrier to transfer baby to during trips to help them back to sleep safely.
Reports on breastfeeding sibling study are vastly overstated - If you haven't heard about the sibling pairs study that is being touted as proof that breastfeeding has no long term benefits, be thankful you live under a rock because that shit has been ridiculous. It's flawed as all hell, to say the least, and if you're looking for some information about why, check out this fantastic take-down.
Did US researchers really find breastfeeding to be ineffective or harmful? - More of the above.
Measure your pupillary distance - Ever wanted to buy cheap-ass glasses online but don't know your pupil distance without making an appointment with a specialist? This website just needs a webcam, a well-lit room and a card with a mag strip. Follow it up with a trip to Zenni.com and you can save hundreds of dollars on glasses. We bought a replacement pair for Curtis for about $40 (including shipping) - by comparison, the absolute cheapest pair we could find for him locally that didn't look like ass would cost us almost $200.
Meet the woman who straight-up rocks a beard - If you're in need of a dose of body positivity today, look no further than this absolutely fantastic young woman. Her confidence and level of self-love are fantastic, and it's hard not to feel inspired after reading this.
I am alive - While pondering the missing Malaysian flight, I started reading about similar incidents and came upon the story of the survivors from the crash of Uruguayan Air Force Flight 571. It's the event that inspired the early 90's movie, "Alive" (which I have never seen) as well as a documentary and two books. The documentary is what I have linked. It is the most incredible tale of survival I have ever heard of. The story is terrifying, chilling, and yet completely awe-inspiring. The gist is that in 1972 a small charter plane went off course and crashed deep in the Andes mountains with 45 on board: a rugby team and their families. They were over 11'000 feet up, trapped in a valley surrounded on all sides by sheer peaks. There were 27 survivors. 8 more died in a sudden avalanche and 3 more over the weeks. By day 10 they made the choice to eat the bodies of their friends and loved ones for survival. They were trapped for 72 days. Seventy-two fucking days. In the end, three of the men decided to scale one of the 15k foot peaks in hopes of finding help. They trekked without gear, shelter, tools or proper clothing for 10 days and crossed over 40 miles of the Andes before being sighted by a Chilean rancher. 16 made it home alive by the end of the ordeal. The documentary is absolutely terrifying, and yet completely inspiring. If you have an hour and a half, watch it.

Shampoo-free follow-up: 10 years later (plus, FAQ version 2.0)

babyslime — Mon, 03 Mar 2014 00:39:50 GMT

(It’s more like 9.5 years but I’m rounding).

TABLE OF CONTENTS
• What is this no-poo thing you speak of?
• Why on Earth would I do this?
• What you'll need
• Step one: baking soda
• Step two: apple cider vinegar
• Step three: aftercare
FAQ #2: The most common questions
• The baking soda 'shampoo'/wash doesn't lather and feels more like a rinse, what am I doing wrong?
• Does the vinegar smell stay in your hair?
• Can you still do this with dyed hair? / How do you get your colour to stay so vibrant?
• Can you use hair styling products like gel or mousse?
• Can I use this with my kids?
• How often do I need to do this?
• Do you only use one tablespoon/one cup per washing, or is that just the ratio when you're mixing?
• Do I have to use the whole cup of the mixture when I wash/rinse?
• Can I use baking powder or washing soda instead of baking soda?
• I'm a person of colour who is transitioning to natural hair, is this okay to use?
• My hair has static electricity, what can I do to reduce this?
• Do you have to use the ACV to rinse the baking soda wash out of your hair? Do you have to use the ACV rinse every single time?
• Will this bleach your hair?
• I work out every day and get sweaty - should I do this every day to wash the sweat out of my hair?
• I'm a swimmer and the chlorine makes my hair super dry, will this work for me?
• I think I'm allergic to apple cider vinegar or baking soda… how can I tell?
• My hair isn't quite as silky or moisturized as I wanted it to be, is there something else I can try or add to my routine?
• Will this make my hair grow faster and longer?
• Can I use lemon juice instead of ACV?
• Does the mixture go bad?
• This didn't work for me and I think you and your method are a big fat phoney!

I'm approaching the 10 year anniversary of writing the "No-Poo" FAQ and tutorial post on my Livejournal. That also means that my family and I have been happy, devoted users of the method for that long too! Since the post first went up I've received thousands of comments, emails, questions, and little nuggets of shared wisdom. The two most common inquiries are either related to my personal use (Do you still use it? Have you changed/added to your routine at all? Can you post before/after pictures, or pictures of your process?), and whether I'm willing to create a follow-up post for the original tutorial that would cover some of the most common questions I've received since it went up.
A few weeks ago I finally got around to taking pictures of my hair, and my process, and put my ass in gear about writing a follow-up. I've never had even the tiniest desire to go back to traditional shampoo since switching over: it really is like freaking magic to turn grody hairs into pretty hairs. It's made my hair so incredibly soft, especially the first several days after a wash, that neither I nor Curtis can stop touching it. I was not fortunate enough to be gifted with naturally voluminous hair, and this method has given me body that I spent years trying to achieve as a shampoo user. No amount of sprays, mousses, volumizing shampoos or special products ever came close to producing the swish and bounce that going shampoo-free did… and that alone was enough to satisfy the vanity end of switching (because let's be honest, no one would stick with a method that made your hair look like crap!).

If you're new to this concept and are now feeling curious, yet too lazy to go read the original post, and are starting to wonder what's up with all these vague references to constipation and hair… fear not! This post will function both as a more condensed and modern 'shampoo-free' guide for those who weren't around back then, a "ten year" follow-up including pictures of my hair before and after a wash, some more tips and tricks, plus a "no poo FAQ" version 2.0 answering the most common questions I've received over the years. If you're already familiar with the process, you can skip this next part and scroll down for the instructions on my process and the pictures instead.

Shampoo-free, otherwise known as "the no-poo method", is when you give up on commercial shampoos and conditioners and instead use nature and science to wash your hair. A baking soda solution is used to cleanse your hair, and an apple cider vinegar solution is used to clarify and condition it. It works amazingly well for all types of hair styles, colours, textures and lengths and has some other cool benefits too. Most people go through a "hair detox" (yes, this is a real thing) immediately after switching which lasts anywhere from a few days to a few weeks, which is usually comprised of your sebaceous glands over-producing oils and sebum due to the harsh stripping/sealing process that traditional shampoos and conditioners do to it. Once your hair evens itself out, your natural oil production will be way, way less than it was before which also translates to your hair staying soft and light for much longer and needing less washes overall.
I first saw this method being talked about on natural health forums somewhere around mid-2004, with the information spread over several different (and usually giant) threads about general natural health. There was almost no other information about it on the web outside a few forum threads, and none of those had any sort of real tutorial or FAQ. So after some months spent using the method and doing some research, I wrote my own. The post went stupidly viral, and is still my #1 most viewed post, and was shared literally over a hundred thousand times over the years. Over the next few years 'no poo' started becoming a thing, so a lot more tutorials and articles on the subject started popping up. A huge, huge chunk of them either reference heavily from my post - very often verbatim - or follow the exact same format with small language and grammatical changes. Running my post through a copyright search brings up hundreds of results all over the place, which is crazy. Once or twice I even got emails effectively saying things like, "hey we just published your post word-for-word in our zine without any mention of where we got it, the name of the author who originally wrote it, and without asking you if it was okay first! You’re so welcome.". To be honest I'm not really that upset about the referencing and such because it's not like I invented the practice, or am losing revenue, but it is irritating when people republish either the entire post or massive chunks of it and then claim it as their own… especially if they're paid bloggers. 'Cause that's just plain rude.

The original was posted on Livejournal, and can be read [ right here ] (this version is the most common one linked because it's the oldest). The permanent address is on my blog-site, [ right here ]. The post is quite long and includes a bit of history on shampoo, some explanation on what the ingredients do (both in shampoo and in 'no poo'), and an FAQ about problems you might encounter and how to fix them. At some point I plan on doing a video version of the post. I’ve been trying to work up the courage to do that for over a year now. One day.

Alright, now that you're caught up, here's an updated and condensed tutorial!

WHY ON EARTH WOULD I DO THIS?

• It’s way, way cheaper.
• It’s all natural! (if you’re into that)
• It’s sciencey! (if you hate those damn dirty hippies)
• Shampoos and conditioners often contain chemicals and ingredients that are carcinogenic, comedogenic, and linked to all sorts of uncool things - and the added fragrances, colours and preservatives are common irritants and can cause allergic reactions, eczema and so on!
• Shampoo and conditioner are not good for the environment. The containers take up landfills and are a cause of plastic pollution, and the ingredients contained within the products are not always processed by waste treatment, leading to water contamination and negative effects on plant and sea life.
• Shampoo is basically perfumed detergent and is pretty harsh on your hair. It strips away natural oils that your scalp produces for nourishment, and over time this process can make hair weaker and more prone to breakage. The stripped and vulnerable hair needs something to replenish those lost oils, which necessitates the use of conditioner to protect and seal it. However, because conditioner is often largely made from mineral oil (a byproduct of the distillation of gasoline from crude oil) and other heavy ingredients it blocks follicles, inhibits growth, and due to poor absorption it prevents your scalp from going through its natural lifecycle and release toxins or get rid of dead cells, which causes build-up and other problems like dandruff (though initially the layer of heavy oils may cover it up, it’s still getting worse underneath). It covers the hair rather than penetrating, which also prevents natural moisture absorption, drying out hair over time. It does nothing to nourish or repair damaged hair, and the constant stripping/sealing process can slow down growth, cause split ends and more. Regular conditioner use creates the need for more shampoo use to strip it all back out, and the harsh shampoo necessitates the conditioner… and so the cycle continues.
• Underneath all that your scalp is going haywire with its cycles and oil production getting all gaga, and as a result most people find they go through a “detox” period when they first make the switch. Oil production will be in temporary overdrive from years of abuse, but eventually slows down (this can take anywhere from 3 days to a few weeks).

YOU WILL NEED:

• Baking soda/bicarbonate of soda.
• Apple cider vinegar
• Water**
• Measuring spoons
• Measuring cups
• Something to put your mixes in (drinking glasses will do just fine)
• Optional: argon or coconut oil. This is not a necessary step but it really makes your hair super soft, plus they work amazingly well as detanglers.
• Your dirty, dirty head.

I thought it best to take my process pictures on a day after I’d been recovering from illness, because that meant my hair was rather gross and in desperate need of washing. I figured this would illustrate the point better than washing hair that’s already clean.

BEHOLD MY GREASY HAIR AND TINKERBELL PAJAMAS.

That’s some seriously, "I haven’t even showered too many days because I’ve felt like ass" hair.
Also I need to re-dye that blue section ‘cause it’s really looking washed out, you don’t need to remind me.

STEP ONE : BAKING SODA

WTF? :

Baking soda is a weak alkali and clarifies hair and scalp by breaking down leftover hair products, dirt, oil and sebum so that it can be removed without the effects of harsher detergent stripping. It also opens the hair’s cuticles allowing for easier penetration of your conditioning rinse.

DO WHAT NOW? :
• Mix one tablespoon of baking soda with one cup of warm water until completely dissolved.
• Pour slowly over the top and sides of your head with one hand, and massage right into your scalp with the other.
• Massage well and evenly into your scalp for at least 30 seconds (30-60 is best), up until your hair starts to feel a bit ‘squeaky’. This is the baking soda breaking down the sebum and oils that have built up and make your hair feel greasy or look “dirty”. If your hair is medium to long, don’t massage the baking soda mix into your ends: it does not build up sebum and scalp oils the way your roots do, and doesn’t need the deep cleanse.
• Gently wash out with warm water.
• I personally use a ratio of 1.5-2 tablespoons of baking soda to 1.5 cups of water. Once you’ve cleared your detox, you can experiment to see what ratio works best for you: start at 1:1 and make only small adjustments.

STEP TWO: APPLE CIDER VINEGAR

WTF? :

ACV can promote circulation on your scalp, act as a natural antiseptic, dissolve excessive fatty deposits, and improve skin quality by reducing scaling or peeling which in turn can prevent and treat dandruff. It clarifies, detangles and balances hair’s pH level and seals the cuticles (which were lifted by the baking soda mix). It’s even got some health bonuses if you ingest it, too.
Some people aren’t big on the mild vinegar smell - myself included - but it goes away as soon as you rinse. If you’re still not digging it you can improve the scent with essential oils, herbs or even tea added to your rinse mix. Many of those things can also be used to improve hair’s overall health or treat other hair/scalp issues. More info on this at the original FAQ page.

DO WHAT NOW? :
• Mix one tablespoon of ACV with one cup of tepid water.
• If you have shorter hair, pour over your head evenly and give it a pretty gentle massage. If your hair is medium to long, pour it your hair but only really work it into the bottom 2/3rds. Avoid working it into your scalp the way you did with the baking soda - it’s not necessary.
• Rinse with lukewarm or cool water, which helps close the hair’s cuticles and seal in the goodness.
• I personally use a ratio of about 0.75 tablespoons of ACV to 1.5 cups of water. Once you’ve cleared your detox, you can experiment to see what ratio works best for you: start at 1:1 and make only small adjustments.

I keep a coffee mug in the shower to do my mixes in, and the ingredients on the windowsill within arm’s reach. I’ve been doing this for a very long time and can eyeball the right amount without measuring tools; but if you’re new to this, traveling, or have kids that do it, you might find it easier to pre-mix each step in little travel bottles. They look like this :

… and are usually available for $1 each. Make sure you shake them up before use!

Freshly washed, and towel-dried hair.

STEP THREE: AFTERCARE
When you get out of the shower, gently towel dry your hair to get the excess water off and then take a small amount of coconut, argon or jojoba (or another of your favourite moisturizing oils) on your fingertips and distribute evenly through the ends of your hair to help combat split ends from weather, damage or brushing against your shoulders. If you have really dry or frizzy hair you’ll probably need more than the standard “dime-sized” amount. Use what’s leftover on your hands to gently work through the rest of your hair. Really, you do not need to use much.
Most people find they do not need to massage any oil into their scalp: it produces its own natural oils and doesn’t need extra. Plus, you may find this makes your hair feel oily or greasy much sooner than it normally would. The exception to that is if you’re the very dry and frizzy type, in which case a small amount massaged into your head can help alleviate uncomfortable dry or itchy scalp.

Avoid combing wet hair! Your hair is weaker while it’s wet and this will cause more damage and breakage. Either blow dry or air dry (obviously air dry is best). Try not to go to sleep with wet hair either, it's not good for it.

I find that after I rub a little argon oil into my ends, my hair becomes almost completely detangled all by itself. It’s like goddamn magic. All I have to do at that point is just very gently finger-comb, then let it air dry completely before running a brush through it.

Ends oiled and hair finger-combed.

You can make up a little spritz bottle with your favourite oils to give your hair a bit of shine or light scent after it’s dried. If you have naturally oily scalp/skin, either avoid or go real light on this.
A boar bristle brush works wonders for redistributing your scalp’s natural oils down the rest of the hair shaft and leaving you with very soft, shiny, bouncy hair. Plus, it feels nice to use. A good one will run you anywhere from $15 to $35. The Mason Pearson brand, which is said to be the cream of the crop for bristle brushes, will run you a rather staggering $85. If you'd like to find a good one and don't have the funds to pay for a Pearson, check out [ this list ] of quality bristle brushes.

Completely dried and brushed. No other products applied.

After trimming my split ends.

And an actual properly-lit, non-bathroom-mirror photo.

Plus one with Z for good measure. She came in toward the end of my attempt at hair photos and wanted to be included.

THE MOST COMMON QUESTIONS I'VE RECEIVED OVER THE YEARS

Question: The baking soda 'shampoo'/wash doesn't lather and feels more like a rinse, what am I doing wrong?
Answer: Nothing! It's not supposed to lather. The lathering effect in products like shampoo or toothpaste is caused by foaming agents and surfactants like sodium laurel sulfate or sodium laureth sulfate, which are added into the products specifically for that purpose. The shampoo-free method does not have any added surfactants (natural or artificial) and therefore will not foam or lather. Both mixes are diluted, and will look and behave like water. You'll pour it over your head and massage it into your scalp and/or hair, then rinse clean with plain water.

Question: Does the vinegar smell stay in your hair?
Answer: Nope, it rinses clean away with water.

Question: Can you still do this with dyed hair? / How do you get your colour to stay so vibrant?
Answer: First, you can absolutely use this method with dyed hair. My hair has only been its natural colour about twice in the last ten years, and prior to that hadn't been its natural colour since I was 13. I've used it with bleached hair, and coloured hair, for many years without issue and have received a lot of feedback from dozens and dozens of dyed hair no-pooers over the years who also didn't have any issues. Of course, as with everything, your mileage may vary: some people have the kind of hair that doesn't hold colour as long, especially if they've damaged their hair from repeated perms, colour or bleaching jobs and the hair shafts are damaged. If this sounds like you, you'll want to do a protein treatment* on your hair to help restore it before trying again.
Also, different colours will also fade at different rates. Red is the fastest fade, and blonde after that. Bright and vibrant "punk" colours vary significantly: I personally find that pink goes the fastest, and blue stays the longest, that said my "punk chunk" often stays vibrant for 3-5 months before I need to dye it again. In the above photos I'm 4 months past a refresh of my blue chunk. I use the "Punky Color" tubs, by Jerome Russell, and you can find out more about them [ on their website ].
If you use temporary or super vibrant dye I'd recommend NOT doing this every single day, and waiting 2+ days after your dye job before washing it the first time to give it a chance to really set in. I generally only do a wash when my hair starts to feel oily, and have never had an issue with colour fading any faster than I did with regular shampoo. Very heavy, paste-like dilutions of baking soda can strip dye out of hair faster (and this method is sometimes employed by stylists to help reverse a bad colour), but a the heavily diluted solution for regular washing is a completely different animal.

* Here's an all-natural, protein-enriching recipe for badly damaged hair that I learned from a friend who is a professional stylist :
- 1/2 an avocado.
- 1 teaspoon of extra virgin olive oil
- 1 egg
Mix, slather it on your head, leave on for 15 minutes and then wash out.

Question: Can you use hair styling products like gel or mousse?
Answer: Yep, the baking soda wash and ACV rinse will get rid of it. The only exception to this is heavy silicones, which can be difficult to get out of your hair, cause a lot of build-up and are damaging. I have no personal experience with this but others have said they either do more than one BS/ACV wash, or use a clarifying shampoo to rid their hair of the large amount of build-up prior to going 'poo free'. That said, the easiest thing to do is try to avoid silicone-based products entirely.

Question: Can I use this with my kids?
Answer: Absolutely. We've used it on all of our kids, and our two youngest have never had anything else on their heads. My 3 have very different types of hair: my eldest has very fine, easily tangled red hair; my son has very thick and heavy hair that never ever seems to get oily; my toddler has fine hair that seems to be thickening up as she grows. No-poo works equally well on all of them for cleansing and overall hair health.
Some kids do not like the smell of the ACV mix. As said above, you can add some teas or essential oils to hide the scent if needed, but honestly it only lasts for about 20 seconds so it's not really that big a deal. My son just holds his nose when he does the rinse.

Question: How often do I need to do this?
Answer: Whenever your hair needs it. Once you get through your detox phase, you'll find that your hair takes longer to get oily/greasy than it previously did. I generally use it 1-2x a week once my hair starts to feel a bit oily. While I was pregnant and my skin/hair changed, I needed to do it once every 3 days or so. Most people find that it works best to use it once every 3-5 days.

Question: Do you only use one tablespoon/one cup per washing, or is that just the ratio when you're mixing?
Answer: It's just the ratio.

Question: Do I have to use the whole cup of the mixture when I wash/rinse?
Answer: No, as long the ratio is the same, it doesn't matter how much or little you use of the mixtures. If you have lots of hair, or very thick hair, you'll probably be using more than one cup of the mixture as opposed to people with really short hair. Just keep your magic ratio in tact and you're good.

Question: Can I use baking powder or washing soda instead of baking soda?
Answer: No. It needs to be baking soda, sometimes known as bicarbonate of soda or sodium bicarbonate.

Question: I'm a person of colour who is transitioning to natural hair. Is this okay to use?
Answer: Sure is, and you may find that your natural hair feels less dry, and your curls better defined after switching!

Question: My hair has static electricity, what can I do to reduce this?
Answer: Get a little water spritzer bottle and put in a bit of your favourite moisturizing oil, (if you don't want to use too much of your nice expensive oils, you can use a carrier oil like extra virgin olive to dilute it) and give your hair just one or two little spritzes near the middle and ends. Use a paddle brush (or better, boar bristle) to distribute it evenly.

Question: Do you have to use the ACV to rinse the baking soda wash out of your hair? Do you have to use the ACV rinse every single time?
Answer: The baking soda wash is rinsed clean with warm water, not the ACV. You don't have to use the ACV rinse every single time, though without it you may notice your hair doesn't detangle as nicely or isn't as silky. Repeated baking soda-only washes (without any form of conditioning) may leave your hair dull looking over time due to the hair's cuticles never being smoothed back down. You'd have a similar problem (with added weak, brittle and dry hair) if you were a traditional shampoo user who never used conditioner, due to having the proteins stripped from the hair due to the harsh detergents. Some people find their hair reacts best when they use the ACV rinse every other time they cleanse. After your detox phase, you can tweak your process to see what works best for you.

Question: Will this bleach your hair?
Answer: No, it does not bleach your hair. A small minority of users find that their hair gets very slightly lighter with heavy baking soda dilutions or long-term daily use. It has no effect on greying or natural high and low lights.

Question: I work out every day and get sweaty - should I do this every day to wash the sweat out of my hair?
Answer: Try a half-strength dilution of the ACV rinse to lightly clarify your hair, rather than doing your regular BS/ACV cleanse after every work-out. This should effectively get rid of the sweat but still be diluted enough not to over-moisturize. You can also try an herbal tea rinse (recipes and ideas are available on the original post) for your post-workout shower.

Question: I'm a swimmer and the chlorine makes my hair super dry, will this work for me?
Answer: Yes! You may want to up your ACV dilution and experiment with different herbs added in the rinse for extra moisture, if you find you need it. Alternatively, use a moisturizing oil and gently massage into your scalp and damp hair (a very light application is fine!) to help combat the dry itches.

Question: I think I'm allergic to apple cider vinegar or baking soda… how can I tell?
Answer: Do a patch test by making a very small amount of baking soda paste and putting it on your inner arm, then place a band-aid over it and leave it for 20 minutes before checking for a reaction. With ACV, take a bit of a cotton swab and dip it in some ACV, then use a band-aid to hold it to the skin and check after 20 minutes. An allergic reaction is generally characterized by localized swelling, hives and itchiness.

Question: My hair isn't quite as silky or moisturized as I wanted it to be, is there something else I can try or add to my routine?
Answer: Some people have noted that their very fine or damaged hair had the best results when they switched to an organic apple cider vinegar, which may have a softer PH balance and be a better quality product overall. It is more expensive, but you're only using a tablespoon at a time so a small bottle will last you several months. It's worth a try! Also, there are many different hair masques that work very well for an occasional reparative or moisturizing treatment. Try the recipe I posted above with avocado and egg, or check out this wonderful flax mucilage recipe by Livejournal user Westcoastred for nourishing dry hair and improving curl-definition, [ available here ].

Question: Will this make my hair grow faster and longer?
Answer: Not unless the products you were using previously were stunting your hair's growth. This method isn't a hair growth serum; it's for washing and clarifying. Your hair's growth speed is largely dependant on your genetics as well as your body's overall health.

Question: Can I use lemon juice instead of ACV?
Answer: Lemon juice has a pH of about 2, whereas ACV is 5-7, so the lemon is going to be significantly more abrasive to your hair and I would't recommend using it all the time. It does have it's merits for occasional use; natural lightening, assisting in sun-bleaching, or helping to pull dye out quicker than it would normally fade. Whatever you do, please don't use lemons or lemon juice directly on your face! It's really, really abrasive to your delicate facial skin and not at all good for it (no matter what that infamous lemon and sugar scrub tutorial says!).

Question: Does the mixture go bad?
Answer: No, it should not go bad if it's stored in sealed bottles. However, I find that the baking soda mixture forms little crystals in the bottom of its container after a few days and doesn't cleanse as well once there's quite a bit of it, so I personally find it's easier to either make a small and fresh batch for each shower or a new bottle once a week.

Question: This didn't work for me and I think you and your method are a big fat phoney!
Answer: That's not much of a question but I'm sorry it didn't work for you! I was not the first to create this method, I only wrote a long FAQ about it, but I'm flattered you'd think to credit me with its invention.

Major thanks to everyone who read, shared and commented over the years (and maybe even converted a friend).
Feel free to repost and share all you want, all I ask is that if you’re gonna borrow any parts of it to post on your own space, please remember to credit and link back to the original. I don’t exactly have unlimited free time, which means stuff like this often takes me several days or longer to do up; the polite thing to do is to acknowledge the work the original author put into it. :)

LINKS
• [ Original "Shampoo Free: Healthy Hair, Naturally" post ]
• [ Tumblr version of this post ] (Condensed for easy reading, so it doesn't contain the FAQ)

** If you have very hard water you may notice build-up, or that your hair doesn’t seem to soften up super nice. There are several ways to combat this, read more on the original FAQ link. Some people with a big hard water problem find it’s easiest to just pick up the gallon jugs of nursery (distilled) water for 2-3 bucks and use that for their mixes and rinses.

babyslime — Mon, 27 Jan 2014 04:13:20 GMT

Zephyra has developed this quirk in her language where her standard response to things is "What". This is way, way more annoying than it sounds. I have no way of knowing if she's actually asking "What?" or confusing it with another question like, "Why?" or is simply making some sort of emphatic noise like, "Huh" that's gotten mixed up with an actual word.

These are examples of conversations I've had with her from just this evening:
"Where did your clothes go?"
"What."
"Why'd you take off your clothes, silly girl?"
"What. Hehe."

"Please don't bite!"
"What." Then, sarcastically, "Okay, geez."

"No bum! Nooooo bum!"
"Why can't I put your diaper back on?"
"What."

"Oh no, you fell! Are you okay?"
"Yes."
"Did you hit your leg?"
"What."

"Eat! Eat dis food!"
"No honey, I don't want to eat food that's already been in your mouth."
"Haha… what."

It's like that every hour of every day. And it's not even like she uses tones to indicate a question, it's usually said very flatly. This is some serious toddler bullshit. The only context cues are whether or not she says it loudly or quietly.

The other thing she does now is add a 'y' sound to the end of every word. Like "Pantsy" for pants, or "nursey" for breastfeeding, "foody" for food, "backy" for back time (when she's put on someone's back to assist in going to sleep), "Bootsy" when she needs to put her shoes on. I'm sure you can imagine the rest. Old readers may remember Tempest's x-y-x language quirk that happened about a year past this age, when she was around 3.5, where x is any word and y is literally the 'y' sound. This was apparent in phrases like, "I like the ring-y-ring" and "Let's go to car-y-car". Though that came off as rather adorable and not at all confusing or ridiculous, unlike Z.
All of this only adds to Z's uniquely challenging charm.
Z has been, by and large, the most challenging and exhausting toddler I have ever had. I can't be certain how much of her behaviour is learned from watching and/or being around older siblings and how much is truly organic, but regardless it's enough to make me pray for ages three and four in a way I have never imagined was possible. And ya'll know 3 and 4 are Satan child time, but it's gotta be less exhausting than this. I mean at least then I don't have to worry about her unlocking the bathroom window and crawling out onto the roof or beaning random people with mugs she stole out of a cabinet secured with no less than two child locks. And not even the cheap ones.
These things haven't yet happened, of course, but she's gotten very close. Sometimes the only thing that keeps me going is the hope that one day these stories will be hilarious and we will tell them at various family events while she squirms and looks vaguely apologetic.

Something like two months ago I wrote about a particularly exhausting afternoon with her and then forgot where I saved the file. I finally found it and I'm copying it below because seriously she is ridiculous and this shit is what most days are like with her.

I swear to god, this baby is going to be the death of me. Two year olds are always a ton of trouble but she's got the cunning and ability of both the others put together and I honestly do not understand it.

Early this morning she successfully figured out the sliding glass door locks (x2) and disappeared into the backyard (which, fortunately, has a very high fence and latch placed out of reach even for a child of Xan's height) leaving me momentarily terrified when I couldn't find her anywhere. After some desperate searching and calling I caught some movement out of the corner of my eye, and then saw her standing in the backyard completely naked (her clothes were strewn all over the dew-covered ground). Once I made eye contact with her she threw her arms up in the air and yelled, "TAH DAHHHHH!" loud enough that I could hear it through the closed door.

She skipped her nap this afternoon and instead spent time undoing every chore I was trying to get done, from laundry to sweeping. She dunked the cat's food into their water twice, then poured the water out onto the floor, threw every single piece of food I gave her to eat onto the floor, and sprayed a bottle of milk inside the vacuum cleaner after managing to lock herself in the hall closet with it while I was selfishly taking time to pee.

After I picked up the kids from school and came home to start the afternoon chores she followed me around up and down the stairs, often either right at my heels or directly in front of me and generally getting in the way. This makes it extremely hard for me to haul large baskets of laundry up and down the two flights of stairs that are between the bedrooms and the washing machine. Every distraction I threw at her failed, and she wasn't that interested in helping to put clothes in the machine either so I just barreled through it as fast as I could. I tripped over her half a dozen times, the worst of which resulted in my falling into the corner of a cabinet, splitting my toe open.
After transferring the diaper laundry to the dryer, I filled the washing machine up about 1/4 of the way and then went upstairs to grab the last laundry basket from the bathroom so I could fill it the rest of the way. When I got back downstairs with the basket, baby was once again inexplicably naked and standing at the bottom of the steps waiting for me. "TAHHH DAHHH!" she said, laughing and slapping her belly.
Alright, fine, whatever. I could care less if she's naked, as long as she hasn't stripped off a poopy diaper. I check her bum as she runs away from me and it looks clean. I'll find her clothes when I'm done.

I put the rest of the laundry in the machine and close it up.
"Alright Zephyra," I called after her, "Where's your bum?" (bum is what we call diapers).
"My bum! I naked!" she exclaimed.
"Yes I can see that. Can you show me where you put your bum so I can put it in the pail? I won't put it back on you, I swear."
She wandered in circles for about 3 minutes before finally leading me back into the laundry room and pointing at the washing machine, "Help!" she said.
"Help?… what do you need help with?"
"I help!"
"You help what?" And then it hit me. She 'helped' by throwing all of her clothes and diaper into the washing machine when I left the lid open between dumps of clothes. Crap. Well, as obnoxious as that is at least it's cloth and she didn't poop so no harm done.

And I start back upstairs and realize, wait no… it isn't cloth. The one time in ages that I've used a disposable because she was poopy two minutes before I had to run and pick up the kids, already late, and her diaper shelf was empty except for an old disposable because everything else was in the wash. She just threw a used disposable diaper into the washing machine, sandwiched somewhere between the three baskets of laundry that I threw in there.
Oh, fuck.
I ran back in and was thankfully able to stop the machine before the 'lid lock' mechanism turned on which prevents me from opening it no matter what I do (I have no idea how to disable it or even why it exists in the first place). I ended up having to pull out around 3/4 of the sopping wet, filthy clothes and cat-peed-on towels before finally locating and removing the diaper, now swollen to five times it's normal size. When I finally pulled out the dripping mass of gross, Z gave me a slow clap. Thanks, baby.

We went back upstairs to continue my afternoon chores, deciding I would not bother to try and re-dress Z, seeing as she clearly needed some naked time so damn much. My back was starting to really hurt by that point, so after I finished sweeping and mopping the kitchen I went and sat down for a rest in the livingroom. Three or four minutes went by without having Z harass me, which generally means something is very wrong somewhere in the house. Just as I started to get up she approached me with her mouth wide open.
"Yuck!" she exclaimed, gaping at me. I was overwhelmed by a sickly sweet, soapy smell. Her mouth was covered in some sort of white residue. It was also on her hands and chest. We have really difficult cabinet locks on EVERY drawer, cabinet or cupboard that contains any cleaning solution so there is absolutely no way she got into anything dangerous. Seriously the amount of time and money I have spent finding the perfect locks for each individual cabinet since moving in her has been seriously fucking stupid. With that in mind, I figured she may have eaten some hand soap or something. Though the bathrooms all have door handle locks on them, and remain closed at all times exactly for reasons like this… so that's also unlikely.

With some prompting Z eventually led me to the culprit: a now empty trial-size deodorant that had been stored in a zippered compartment of my purse. My purse that I absently left hanging on the lower hook instead of the higher one when I came in after picking up the kids. What she hadn't eaten or bitten or whatever she was doing with it was smeared all over the entryway: walls, door, floor and the wipe mat. Ugghhh.
The deodorant is not even remotely dangerous nor was it that big a deal to clean, but the smell was awful and gives me a headache. I picked it up on sale somewhere and ended up storing it in my purse for use only in terribly smelly emergencies.

Thank god the repaired Wii gamepad came in today because I seriously need to be able to just hand her the TV and let her veg out for 30 minutes right now. I'm starting to get a serious case of twitchy eyeball. It's not even 4pm yet and I still have to put aside an hour and change to make dinner and clean up after that without her burning down the damn house.

Seriously. SERIOUSLY.

On the plus side, she has spontaneously started using the potty, all on her own!
Our potty learning tactics with her have ranged from feigned disinterest, to gently encouraging or even borderline bribery without any smidgen of success. But, like her sister before her, it was only after giving up and ignoring the idea completely that she finally began to show actual interest. A few days ago she spontaneously announced that she had to use the potty while galavanting around the house naked, so I brought her there and she actually went. Like, a lot. It was very clearly a purposeful attempt at potty learning.
The next day she used the potty 7 times in a row and didn't need a diaper at all until bedtime. The day after she used it all day so long as she was naked (but asked for diapers to poop) and that night she slept without a diaper, by her rather aggressive request, and woke up dry. She then used the potty in the morning and peed so much it very nearly required a courtesy flush.
I'm calling this a half-success because she still regularly asks for diapers when she's mad at us, being lazy, or has to poop. Regardless, it's happening significantly earlier than it did with my other kids, so I have high hopes that we may actually be able to pack away her diapers by the time she turns 3. Cautiously high hopes, but hopes nonetheless.

As an update to this, she waited two more days to start using the potty to poop too. Today I went out to try and find her underwear to practice with, but I cannot find any in her size. The smallest pack I could find was "XXS" and said that it would fit a 2-3 (she wears 3T) and it's huge on her. Argh. Though I'm not sure I'll be able to take them back now, because as soon as we got home she stripped naked, ripped open the bag, took out a pair to put on, and now refuses to take them off.
This makes me unbelievably excited.

I'm going to have to put away my #1 Crunchy Mom mug when I admit that I am seriously done with changing poopy diapers. DONE. And nursing, too. I'm just not enjoying nursing anymore, and I would not be bent out of shape if she got up one morning and decided she was done forever. I have no desire to forcibly wean her because not only am too lazy for that bullshit; but also because it would begin a torrent of crying, tantrums, sleepless nights, grumpy asshole babies, and general freaking out for days or even weeks, and frankly I'd much rather she just gradually pull away the same way the other kids did because that just makes more sense. But still, it does't mean I'm not feeling done with it.
I'm all over the LLL, "don't offer, don't refuse" bullshit, which as any nursing mom knows, doesn't do jack shit, clever phrasing or no. My go-to distraction is to simply tell her I'm really not feelin' it right now and if she could wait until such-and-such time I'd be all over that and we'd nurse as much as she'd like (which is actually more like an extremely short session).
My worst problem right now is her terrible, lazy toddler latch; which is impossible to correct not only because she refuses to listen to reason (or perhaps doesn't understand my complicated instructions), but also because of the persisting effects of her tongue tie and how that effects the way my nipple is positioned in a mouth full of teeth. There really is no option here that allows for super comfortable, painless latching. And while what we have isn't exactly horrible agony, it's also not exactly fluffy peaceful clouds either. At 2.5 the only persisting problems with her tongue tie are things like excessive drooling (for a child this age), some lisping that I'm not entirely sure is truly abnormal, and a weird shallow latch that makes her top teeth dig into my areola in a way that any other normal child's latch would not. To be honest, continued breastfeeding has done more for her speech and physical therapy than anything else could come close to (and I'm not pulling this out of my ass, this comes from the PT/OT we worked with and then checked in with for so long), so there's a lot of weight on the 'pro' side of continuing to nurse her as long as she needs it. The more we nurse, the more stimulation those areas of her mouth receive, which strengthens and stretches and prevents all sorts of other problems like bubble palate or "baby bottle mouth"-like development due to pressure pockets, malocclusion and all that. Continued breastfeeding into toddlerhood does a lot of wonderful things, and that goes double for kids like her. But man am I ever getting to a point where I hate the sensation.

There are still some times when I don't mind so much, like when she's really sleepy and cuddled up nice and close, actually taking the time to get a proper, deep latch for the purpose of drinking; and I look down at her sweet little face and can watch as she drifts off. That's very sweet. I mean, up until she slips into REM sleep and bites down. But before that it's very sweet.

Speaking of sweet, I had a really lovely moment with Xan the other night, though it had not started out that way.

I walked up into the bathroom after Xan's frantic call and found that Zephyra had gotten ahold of an eyeshadow sample that was not only very expensive to replace (I did not pay for it initially, it came as a gift) but also one of my absolute favourite pieces… and she'd emptied it out all over the entire bathroom. I was furious. Both with her, and with Xan for what appeared to be him just standing there watching her do it rather than trying to help.

I got Curtis to help wrangle the baby while I tried to salvage what was left, and while I reprimanded Xan for not trying to help, I realized he was standing there looking very nervous with his shirt pulled up over his nose.
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing."
"No I mean why is your shirt like that."
"Nothing," he said again.
"Did you hurt yourself?"
"No," he admitted. Then carefully, "I just…got blush on me. The baby did it."
"Xan, it's okay if your'e playing with my make-up, all you have to do is ask so I know what you're doing. I'm mad about you not trying to stop the baby from ruining things when she was doing it right in front of you… not that you're using it."
Slowly the shirt came down to reveal that he had two swipes of blush on either cheek, and a hint of lipstick. "Yeah?"
"Yeah of course."
Tempest came in at this point to see what the kerfuffle was about. The shirt came right back up to hide his face.
"You know that makeup isn't for girls, it's for everyone. Men and women who are in theatre, TV shows or anything on stage or in front of cameras pretty much always wear make-up," I said.
Tempest agreed with me. "That's right! I see lots of guys on YouTube who teach about make-up!"
"Me too!" I said. I saw Xan out of the corner of my eye slowly lower his shirt again. "The person that gives me the best tips and tutorials about make-up is a guy, and he wears make-up almost every day!" (Wayne Goss, for those wondering, he truly is incredible and you should all subscribe to him).
I motioned to Xan, "If you ever wanted to be on stage and entertain people, you'd probably have to wear make-up!"
"Well, I don't want to do that," he said. "I want to be a cooker like daddy." He paused a moment. "Can cookers wear make-up?"
"Anyone can wear make-up," said Tempest, having even the slightest clue the difference she was making. "It's for anyone for whatever reason. Haven't you ever heard of goth?"
"No," Xan answered.
"Those are people that dress a certain way, like in all black, and they all wear the same kind of make-up no matter if they're boys or girls or anything else." (I think this is her way of acknowledging people who are intersex or androgynous, a subject we've touched upon a few times).
"You can always play with my make-up, Xan," I said. "Tempest can too. All you guys have to do is make sure you let me know first, so I know what you're doing and where you're at."
Xan pondered this for a second, then cautious made his way over to my open case and pointed at a set of foundations. "Okay, so what's this one for?"

This prompted a make-up lesson that lasted over an hour. I went through foundations and shadows and the difference between sheer and matte and what "colour payoff" meant; lipsticks, glosses, bronzers and blushers and everything I had in my kit that I'd collected over years and years. To be honest, most of it has long since expired and if I had the wherewithal I would have disposed of half of it, but I'm not rich enough to afford to replace everything before it runs dry. By the end Tempest had managed to curl her lashes and apply mascara and Xan knew the difference between bronzers, blushers, powders, sticks and which brush was appropriate to use with what product.

It was kind of amazing and gave me a weird sense of pride to know that he could be comfortable with his curiosity again. This is something I haven't seen him be so open with since Kindergarten… shortly before it was beaten and forced out of him by the bullying that year. I don't label him anything, nor do I think he requires one; I just want him to grow up knowing there are no boundaries to learning and exploring. And I hope a little part of that was accomplished that evening.

Xan had a pro-D day on Monday, though Tempest did not, and the afternoon was pleasantly warm so we decided to spend it out in the back playing with bubbles. I made up another gallon of that bubble mix I'd experimented with over the summer, and whipped up some new "wands" out of a garbage t-shirt and some bamboo skewers we had sitting in the arts and crafts box for some reason, then we all went out back.
As soon as I stepped outside the sun came out from behind the clouds and was shining over the high fence, glinting off these giant bubbles Xan was making as he patiently taught Zephyra how to do it herself, casting colourful shadows on the ground. The whole scene was just so lovely. I ran inside and grabbed my camera, and for the first time in a really long time I'm actually really happy with what I got. In a creative sense, I mean. I've just not been feeling the photography thing for probably a year, if not more, and it's been impossible to get in touch with that 'photo mojo' feeling that made me love doing it.
Creating images like that help remind me why I love photography.

The evening before it was much colder, and we'd used the last of a previous bubble mix out in the courtyard with some of the neighbour kids. Z had tried desperately to figure out how to blow the big bubbles like Xan, but couldn't quite get the hang of it.

Once she tired of that she found a hole in the ground and sat in it.

Then we went inside for painting instead, because it was freaking cold out there.

But it was this set of photos from the next day, with the sunshine coming over the fence while we played, that really made me fall in love with photography again…

At first, Z just helped me clear the yard of toys and debris so I could have a clean area for them to run around in. She had a brief love affair with the Fisher Price or Little Tykes red car that seems to be in front of every house. When Xan called her out to teach her how to make bubbles, she was initially reluctant to leave. I snapped this picture while she complained, and though it's not particularly exciting, I kind of adore it.

Xan showed her how to gently twirl and run with the soaked-up wand to make the long, twisting shapes.

Creating bubbles within bubbles.

She loved watching the ones Xan made float up over her...

…and pop.

And was so damn proud when she managed to get some big ones.

And then they were creating them together, and this wonderful image happened:

BAM.

I'm so happy with it, I want to put it up on canvas in our hall, next to the one of Tempest and Xan in tutus at the table that I took so many years before.

Links of the Day:
Families looking to cure epileptic children find first dose of hope - If you ever saw the movie Lorenzo's Oil this might make you remember the miracle you felt happened upon watching it for the first time. I have a friend whose child has just began this treatment, and has already begun to see amazing improvements. This is very literally changing lives, by gifting one to children for the first time.
Man makes 3D-printed prosthetic for his 10 year old son - When 3D printers become a household object, our entire fucking world is going to change.
Beware of the 5-lb bag of sugarless gummy bears - These write-ups had us dying laughing, but it really is true: don't ever eat this shit.

Holidaze '13

babyslime — Wed, 08 Jan 2014 04:31:30 GMT

Holiday season '13 is officially done.

It was an unexpectedly awesome season this year but holy crap there was just so much. So much. From the first night of Yule straight on until several days from now kind of felt like listening to 10 songs all at once while the lights flicker on and off and you're also being spun in circles. Then suddenly everything stops and you're left with your eyeballs spinning and not entirely sure if you understand the concept of gravity anymore.

I'm completely exhausted and will have no sense of decency for at least two more days. I mean right now it's 3pm and I'm still only half-dressed, my elder kids are playing outside in clothes they wore yesterday, my toddler is watching cartoons and sucking regurgitated cereal out of the back of a toy dump truck, and my lunch has been the peanutbutter smears I licked off someone's lunch plate. And this is honestly a pretty good day so far.

The season didn't initially seem like it was going to go well after we lost our car on Friday the 13th. And by lost I mean lost the ability to have a car forever and ever amen. Our van has been a lemon since two weeks after we got it and has always had all these ridiculous personality quirks and various issues that make it one of those vehicles only the owners can operate safely.
For instance, the car's heat gauge had been having issues with periodically going off since the summer; I could watch it abruptly rise from a comfortable medium all the way up to 'overheat' in about two seconds, stay that way for anywhere from 1-5 minutes, then go back down to half-way just as quickly as it rose. We even had this problem on the coldest night of the year, when it was -12 with windchill, and we were driving around and ridiculously bundled up inside the car because our heater doesn't work and takes about 15 minutes to start blasting moderately warm air as opposed to freezing cold air. About ten minutes into the drive the overheating alarm went off. The car was convinced it was overheating in -12 when it was still so cold that the ice on the inside of the windows had yet to melt. Throughout that drive the overheating alarm went off three more times. Then the gas gauge said it was out of gas, but after we briefly stopped and started the car again it said it had a quarter tank. The car clearly had dementia. Or perhaps menopause.

For the last year and a half its been making this weird clicking noise when we make a right turn. No one could ever figure out what was making the sound but it did seem to gradually be getting louder. On the 13th we went out to do a big shop at the wholesale store outside of town, packed the car with groceries, then made a brief stop by Curtis' work to pick up his tips. As we pulled into the parking lot next door to his restaurant, the car went, "clicky-clicky-clicky-CLANK". Then it made a horrible dragging sound as we pulled into the nearest parking spot and turned off the car.
Once it had stopped we both got out and started checking underneath, under the hood, around the wheels… and we couldn't see anything suspicious. We were praying it was just some weird fluke, but alas it was not. When Curtis turned the car back on it acted like it was stuck in neutral; gunning the gas did absolutely nothing and he could barely change gears.
We ended up calling my dad for a ride and a tow to get the car home. Getting the tow truck there, the car hooked up, and back home took almost two hours because the height limit on the small parkade we were stuck in was too short for the tow truck to get inside, and the parking spot too awkward to pull a van from. They almost charged us another hundred bucks for this, but my father happened to have some nylon cords in his car and had swung by to check on how Curtis was doing after taking me and the kids home. He ended up dragging the van out with his little sedan so the tow truck could hook it up.

When it got home I had to search around outside for some large rocks to put under the wheels because we couldn't put it into park (or rather, when we did, it did nothing). When I was leaning down and putting them in place I saw what the weird dragging sound had been: the front axle literally fell out of the wheel and was dragging on the ground.
So… yeah, it's junk.
At this point it'll cost us more to fix than was paid for it and we don't even have a quarter of that much to spend.

So long you fucking piece of trashy-ass car, we never liked you anyway!

Dad was incredibly kind and offered to drive the kids to and from school every morning until the holiday break kicked in. He said he needed a reason to get up in the morning anyway, and he honestly enjoyed spending the time with them as he doesn't get to see them as often as he'd like due to his erratic teaching schedule. This also allowed me to stay in with the baby on days when her nap ran late, which was a nice bonus.

The kids' school break coincided with the first days of Yule, which also coincided with Curtis' only days off during the entire holiday season, and because we'd so recently moved into this awesome big house were eager to share it's joys with others and volunteered to host the big family dinner this year. And by family I mean all the family.
We invited everyone.
EVERYONE.
That means dad and his partner; Brother, Brother's Wife and Sophie, Marika and her new boyfriend (who is a divorced father of two and has joint custody) along with his two girls who are 4 and 8, plus Taliah who turned 1 in September; and of course my mom. This works out to 9 adults and 7 children. One of the attendees, Marika's Boyfriend's eldest, is a vegetarian and won't eat the turkey. Everyone else eats meat. We didn't want to be dicks to an eight year old so we made sure to have enough for her to enjoy without feeling left out.

Before anyone asks, no there are no pictures. I was really not in a mood for pictures.

That said, it did go well. Brother's wife and Sophie were the only ones who didn't show up and they had a good reason.

This was the first time I met Marika's New Guy's kids and I was pleasantly surprised at how well they got along with the Elders. The eldest, Rei, immediately latched onto Tempest and within five minutes they were already happily excluding Xan from whatever it was they were doing.
Xan, being the oblivious drama queen he is, was walking through the house complaining about how no one wanted to play with him while the younger girl was literally hanging off his arm and he was dragging her along with him. Eventually he noticed that she existed and wanted to spend time with him, so he invited her to play Wii with him. She very sweetly replied, "I just want to watch you," and cuddled up next to him. M'awe.

Marika emailed me a few days later to say that the girls have been talking non-stop about Tempest and Xan ever since. Clearly we need to start arranging play dates.

Over the next several days we did our Yule present exchanges and the kids went nuts every night. We had to hide all the presents in the closet because there's just no way we could put them out under the tree without the baby tearing them apart every time we looked away for a second.
We still wanted the kids to have at least one 'presents under the tree' time during the holidays, so we decided to put what was left out after the kids went to sleep on the last night of Yule, the evening before Christmas. In our family tradition of combining holidays, the kids get a single present every night from the solstice onward, and on the morning of the 25th they can open the remainder of their presents. Their stockings can be opened and played with if they wake up before we do and need something to do (which is always).

So after the kids were asleep we carefully arranged the rest of their gifts, filled their stockings with various toys and goodies (and mandarins in the toes). My dad and his partner bought the kids their big gift this year, which was a full-size electric piano with lessons for both of them (dad's partner is a piano teacher), and because it's a bit too big to hide in the closet they asked us to call after the kids were in bed so they could secretly drop it off. They came by around 10pm and carried it into the living room, and just as quickly left, hoping the kids didn't wake up at the sound of their voices and ruin the surprise.
We decided to use the last remnants of wrapping paper rolls to wrap up the piano, even though it was massive, so that the kids would get the experience of tearing into it in the morning. It took us about ten very awkward minutes to get completely wrapped, during which time Serendipity did not make the task any easier by continually batting at the paper as it flapped about. Once we were completely finished we put a bow on top and stepped back to admire our handiwork…
… and then realized we'd accidentally wrapped the cat inside the gift.

Only this cat, I swear to god.

After letting the cat out, we sat and had a few glasses of rum and eggnog while watching our Netflix addiction, "Homeland", before going up to bed. All was quiet and calm until about 4:45am.

Tempest came into our bedroom at a full run and it woke me up as soon as she crossed the threshold. By force of habit I was already going, "Ssh!" before I'd even opened my eyes, reminding her to whisper when she talked so there was no risk of waking Zephyra. Z goes to bed on a little mattress in our room, but crawls into bed with us by 1am wanting a nurse. Once there she generally sleeps through the rest of the night. Very, very rarely she'll stay in her bed until 3-4am, but that almost never happens.

Immediately I noticed she was not in bed with us.

"Mom, Zephyra just came into my room and woke me up!" said Tempest urgently.
"Okay, okay I'll come get her."
"No, you don't understand: she came into my room with a book I've never seen before a and a handful of torn wrapping paper."
"Oh, fuck me. Did you see anything?"
"I went downstairs to see what happened and I think I saw a piano, and Zephyra was ripping paper off it, then I came upstairs and talked to you."
"Okay, thank you for letting me know. Please go back in your room and go back to sleep - we'll handle it."
To my surprise, she immediately did go back into her room without any argument and I did not see nor hear from her again until the morning.

I woke up Curtis and told him what I thought had happened, then together we ran downstairs.
All the scenarios I had envisioned were nothing compared the sight that greeted us.
Every single present was unwrapped and torn open. Wrapping paper shreds coated the floor to the point where no carpet was visible. All gifts contained in boxes or plastic wrap had been ripped apart. Every single book, toy, article of clothing and video game was strewn from one end of the house to the other. All of the stockings had been dumped out and every cheap little toy thrown around - some had even been broken. Toys, paper and packaging were everywhere. She'd even torn open the mandarins we'd put in the stocking toes and eaten them (some pieces were squashed into the carpet).
For the first five minutes, Curtis and I were so dumbstruck by the scene that we literally did nothing but stand at the bottom of the stairs in silence, our mouths hanging open, watching as Zephyra moved some torn paper aside to play with one of her new toys.

Curtis offered to do the lion's share of the work, but I shot that idea down.
"If you don't bring her back to bed now, she won't go back to sleep again and will be up from this point onward… making re-wrapping a moot point. Just take her back to bed and try to get her back to sleep."
"Are you sure you want to do this by yourself?"
"Yeah. Besides, if I go up there and try to nurse her, she'll just get wired up and we'll have the same problem."
"Okay. If you're sure, you're sure."

Curtis picked her up and she immediately started screeching her displeasure. He ensured all the door locks were in place from the inside of the bedroom, turned off the lights, closed the blinds, brought her into bed with him and and effectively forced her back to sleep through sheer boredom. I heard her screaming for me for another 15 minutes before she finally gave in.
Meanwhile, I collected the torn paper in a pile and pawed through, looking for any salvageable pieces. There were none: Z had not only ripped the wrapping off the gifts, but nearly eradicated the paper itself in the process. I'd have to re-wrap the gifts with what little we had left on the rolls… which was not much. We'd also run out of scotch tape just after completing our last gift, and all I had left was some old painters tape. Ugh.

The worst part was she'd ripped up all the cards and tags, so I couldn't remember whose gifts were whose (especially the ones given by family members, where I had not known what was inside).

It took me about an hour and a half to redo everything and set it all back up again - some just by educated guess - and the sun was coming up when I was finally done. Many gifts were haphazardly wrapped with little random pieces of paper, patched up with newsprint from the recycling bin. There was nowhere near enough left to re-wrap the piano.
I was so upset.
I mean, at least it wasn't a lost cause, but still…

This year will go down in family history as the time Z's sneaky little butt almost ruined Christmas.

Thankfully my hard work paid off and even Tempest was blissfully unaware of the disaster the night before. The Elders woke up around 7:30am and immediately dove into their stockings. Z woke us up shortly after (in spite of apparently being awake half the night…) and we went downstairs to enjoy the precious few hours we had before Curtis was needed at work.

His work hours have been so, so long - especially over the holidays. I had this conversation with friends recently, about how when you're single there's none of that awful emotional cycle of hope-letdown-despair that happens when spouses are overworked every single day. No comparing, of course; I know it isn't comparable and in no way do I consider myself a single parent nor understand the unique challenges that it brings - it's apples to oranges and a completely different kind of experience. When you have a present partner you rely on them emotionally and physically for help raising your children and tempering the stress and difficulty of the day, regardless of whether or not you want to, and that only leads to a horrible build-up of anxiety and depression when they inevitably don't come home and you don't get the help you've been counting on. That daily cycle of hope and despair is emotionally draining, to say the least.
Fortunately - if you can call it that - Curtis has been overworked enough to rack up nine "owed" days (it's actually more like ten times that if you do the math, but you know…) and in a hugely surprising act of generosity, his boss actually decided to award them to him during the slower period of the year. Starting on January third he gets nine days off in a row.

There will be so much sex.
I cannot even begin to quantify the sex we will be having. I mean we're already half-way into it and already I'm so swollen I can barely sit. Goddamn.

Random crafts of the day:
I've been gradually working on my wire-wrapping and have become more confident about making the "tree of life" necklaces. I made about 15 of them, along with some spiral heart pendants, for a local craft fair that my mom managed to get me into. Unfortunately the experience was a bust and even the most experienced vendors there only sold 1-2 items at the most. This was apparently due to a terrible lack of in advertising and the fact that the front door to the building had been locked and no alternate entrance was made available. Awesome planning.
Anyway.
After that I had tried to sell some on my Facebook, and put up an album with photos and detailed descriptions. I sold 5-6 of them, and then a local friend of a friend asked if I could make her a customized order for four: two in regular silver-plated wire and two in pure sterling silver wire. I said yes and gave a cost estimate before going downtown and pricing out the materials. This was a huge mistake. You see, apparently silver wire is outrageously expensive and averages anywhere from $35-$55 a foot at the gauge I need when making the frames for the trees. I've learned more than one valuable lesson through that transaction - if I can even call it that, as I made about $6 when all was said and done - but I did really like the resulting necklaces.

These first two are the silver-plated. The first is fluorite and the second malachite.

The last two are the pure silver; the first made with amber, and the second is a mixture of onyx and snowflake obsidian.

My favourite part was the clasp. I made three or four trial versions before settling on this design.

And this was a necklace I made for my mother's birthday, but forgot to post it here.

Random Pictures of the Day:
Last month Z actually asked to use the potty, and then actually went, all by herself. She was so proud of herself she asked me to take a "pitchy" so she could look at her happy little self on the back of my camera. It was pretty darn adorable, even if it never happened again.

Those were taken just before I cut her hair. She's got the same scraggly toddler hair thing going on that all my kids do at this age. I have so many friends who have toddlers with such thick, luxurious hair and I'm so jealous because my babies have hair that's rather thin and short up until they're into their preschool years.
Z tends to mash things into her hair constantly, so the ends get gross pretty fast. She is bathed almost every single morning (and occasionally a second time in the evening), but you know… toddlers. I figured it was time to give her a trim in hopes it would encourage her hair to grow out a little nicer.

By some miracle I managed to cut it without much issue, but was not impressed with the result. It took a few days to grow on me, and now I think it's pretty adorable. I've tried to get a picture of it for over a week and she was not at all cooperative. I finally had to trick her into it by taking her into the downstairs bathroom and letting her play in the sink while I snapped some images.

She's so silly.

Then she took off the rest of her clothes and announced, "I be NEKKIE! You pitchy me silly nakkie!" (This roughly translates to, "I want to see pictures of myself while I'm naked because I'm so silly").

Naked except for her favourite pair of shoes, of course.

Accidental self-portrait of the day:

I was trying to get a photo of Z and I while she was being cute, but as soon as I got everything set up she hid when the shutter went off (you can see her behind me). I ended up keeping the photo because I actually like it: it's the only image of me I've seen in years that makes me look old… or closer to my age, at least.

I had this really amazing moment when I was getting ready for the holiday staff party at Curtis' work last month: just as I was finishing my eye make-up I stepped back, looked at myself in the mirror, and I saw a woman looking back at me. An actual, grown woman.
That was the first time in my life I've ever seen myself that way.

As a kid I always saw womanhood as a wonderful and beautiful existence: long fingers and thin willowy limbs, crow's feet, laugh lines, freckled skin and hair peppered with tiny white streaks. All of it was so wonderful, and pretty… there was a real sense of elegance to aging, and I so desperately wanted to look that way too. I often fantasized that everything would magically fall into place once I got into my 20's, and I'd somehow grow into myself and look that way, too. Look like a real woman. Then, finally I'd see the end the dysmorphia that comes with pituitary dwarfism and a lifetime of body image problems; I'd be free to learn how to love myself, to be okay with the way I looked.
That vision of womanhood never came true for me, and I never really changed at all. Every time I looked at myself in the mirror I still saw a child: someone underdeveloped, unworthy and inadequate. The older I got, the more I loathed it; at best I could make myself look like a teenager trying to pass themselves off as an adult. It's as though I am marauding through my life wearing the clothes of another woman, and no matter how I grow and change on the inside, my life and experiences never show on my face. It's been an endless source of self-loathing, and nothing has ever really improved it.

But that night, and in that moment, I felt really and truly wonderful. I saw myself as grown, just one time after all these years, and it was a strange and amazing experience. Though it was fleeting, the euphoria lasted through the evening: I was lovely, elegant and feminine - and I felt like I belonged. I've never felt that way before. I've never had that confidence.

I kept this photo for the same reason: it makes me feel pretty. When I look at it I actually see a woman who has been married nearly 12 years and has four children… instead of a teenager dressed in "mommy" clothes, trying to pass myself off as grown.

And it's nice to feel pretty every so often.

Quotes of the Day:
#1
Xan, explaining his home design choices in Minecraft: "I like to use the raw wood for the walls because it's fashion. Do you know fashion?"
"Fashionable."
"Yes, that. Raw wood is *very* fashion in Minecraft right now."

#2
While walking home from the store on New Year's eve with the kids, we passed a group of rowdy (and likely drunk) teenagers on someone's lawn. Tempest commented that they looked like they were assembling for some sort of meeting.
"What would they discuss at a teenager meeting?" I asked her.
She barely missed a beat before answering, "How to get all the junk food and alcohol, and then take over the world".
"… Actually, that's probably not too far from the truth."

#3
Since starting this entry, we've progressed into day five of Curtis' home-vacation. This evening, as soon as we both sat down on the couch, the kids went into need-machine overdrive and all the voices were going at once. At the same time, Zephyra stripped off her clothes and climbed up onto my lap to steal my food. She ate half of it in one go, then opened her mouth going, "Aawwwwhhawaaa!" to show me the half-chewed mush. When I didn't respond, she brought her open mouth closer and closer to me until it was literally pushed against the side of my face. I gave Curtis a look out of the corner of my eye while this was happening, and he laughed and shook his head.
"How do you not just drink all day?"
"This is why I'm always cleaning things. I try to avoid sitting down: it attracts them."

Links of the Day:
What do dress codes say about girls' bodies? - A fantastic article about how dress codes unapologetically target an sexualize girls; making points and dropping truth bombs that I am far too unarticulated to make.
How finding my korean mother gave me the courage to transition - A beautiful, heart-rendering story of a trans* Korean adoptee finding, and coming out to, her birth family. One of the most lovely stories I've read in a long time.
Inspiration is not inclusion - Fantastic article about the super cripple stereotype, and how being used as "inspiration" or "motivation" is neither nice nor inclusive. Choice quote: "Pairing up these images with inspirational slogans minimizes the very real challenges that people with disabilities and their families cope with every day, writes blogger Katherine Coble. Most of these challenges cannot be overcome by extra effort or quick solutions. For example, many therapies and many types of medical equipment are not affordable and not covered by insurance. Physical barriers in public places still exist for people with mobility impairments.
Some families cope with severe behavioral problems that lead to hospitalizations for the person with a disability and his or her caregiver. Sometimes these challenges are beyond the understanding of friends and extended family, so the immediate family is left alone".
Emotional Baggage Check - The concept of this site is fantastic. If you're going through something hard right now, let it out and check your "baggage" in a message, leaving your email (anonymous, and never ever shown). If you have life to spare, you come to help carry someone else's... send along some good advice, or just a note saying you heard them and you care. All these positive and helpful messages are then emailed to the person who anonymously 'checked their baggage' and they get an inbox full of support from strangers.
I've spent almost two hours on this site, leaving messages for people who are feeling overwhelmed. It's crazy, because every time I refresh the page another one comes up that I can absolutely connect with, and it makes me want to reach out and hug them.
(The only caveat is that you're required to add in a link to a song or a YouTube video in order to send the message, so I point them all to various spoken word poems by Shane Koyczan).

babyslime — Tue, 10 Dec 2013 03:42:35 GMT

The holidays have never been my strong point, and I tend to sort of absorb into myself to get through the month. The last few years have actually been mildly improved over previous ones. Okay, maybe significantly improved if I really think about it. There was once a time when the holiday season was so steeped in PTSD nonsense that I could even remember what had happened over those days by the time we were several weeks past it; regardless of whether or not the experiences were positive.
Still, the fact that I still feel myself getting anxious and weird once we hit December is like a permanent reminder that PTSD is stronger than any strength and distance I believe I may have gained over these years of adulthood.

I've spent the last few weeks busying myself, and the result is some sort of limbo between treading water above the seasonal blah and actual, legitimate functionality. There are definitely things to be pleased about, for instance: the threat of looming depression that has been hanging over me for a long while has lifted, and I feel that we've all adjusted to the horror story that was Curtis' shift into a higher position (without the extra pay…).
Routine is like my wonder drug, and once I've managed to set up some sort of routine to follow over the course of the day, everything else falls into place and things seem phenomenally easier.

It's also helped that I was finally able to see a new rheumatologist and my initial appointment was wonderful and included a trial of a new (additional) med for arthritis and inflammation and it's really helping to temper the overall 'background pain' to a reasonable level, which in turn makes me go through far less of my breakthrough meds and that also significantly lowers my stress levels overall.
The constant anxiety that accompanies the knowledge that you're running low on your breakthroughs, but in terrible pain, is really and truly a horrible thing to go through all the damn time. It is one of the worst and most pervasive problems when it comes to balancing treatment of pain. I've talked about this before, but probably not in this much detail, so for the uninitiated here's the low-down on this issue.

Once a flare-up starts to come on, I have two options:
(For this example I'm defining 'flare-up' as something beyond typical break-through pain; an episode of very severe pain that does not respond to rest, baths, etc; worsens considerably without effective treatment, and tends to go on for anywhere from many hours to even days).

Option 1:
Treat the flare-up with a maximum dose and repeat every 4 hours until it's gone (then add one additional, standard dose after it appears to be under control to assure it's actually gone. I have learned this final dose is super important, it's like putting the cork in the bottle… otherwise as soon as you start back to normal everything just flows right out again). Since I have no way of knowing if this flare-up will be the worst one ever, or just a 'typical" bad one, it's smarter to treat each as a worst case scenario rather than risk going too light on treatment and extending the whole experience. This option assures I use the minimum amount of medication, for the minimum amount of time, and generally blasts the flare-up out within a few doses. But, this also exhausts a huge amount of my break-through supply, even running it out completely, because during one fill period I'm only given enough to effectively treat 1-2 really bad flare-ups.
If I treat the pain like this I'll be largely functional during the course of it, and back to normal much faster, which means I'm better able to take care of my house and kids. It also dramatically reduces the risk of the flare-up yo-yo that happens when you don't get on that shit right away, and it gives me a safety net that generally extends the time between flare-ups as well as reduces the intensity of the next one when it comes.
But I am epicly, royally fucked if another flare-up or even just a bout of moderate pain hits me before my next fill… and not treating those creates a sort of perpetual pain loop in my body that can go on for days. This situation is a source of constant panic attacks, and I also feel guilty for taking that much medication in a 24 hour period even though I know I need it and this is what my doctor wants me to do.

Option two:
Treat it half-assed and only take a half dose of meds. This does not give enough relief to blast out or stop the flare-up, which means it goes on, and on, and on… sometimes for up to a week. I am irritable, exhausted due to loss of sleep, and just functional enough to meet the basic needs of household and children but not functional enough to play with them, make dinners from scratch or go for walks (shopping, etc) without needing hours of rest time afterward.
However, I leave myself enough meds to continue the half-assed, barely functional treatment through to my next fill which alleviates the panic attacks and misplaced guilt, as well as the lingering fear that someone (anyone - doesn't actually matter who - in fact it's most often me) will think I take 'too much'. This also generally gives me juuuuust enough for an emergency maximum dose on the day of my fill to give me enough energy and relief to get down to my doctor's office. But it means my overall pain levels range from very uncomfortable to horrible for days and days on end.
However, I also have a terrifying fear of becoming tolerant to my meds and requiring more, and taking doses every day does nothing to alleviate that fear… so the longer that goes on, and the worse the pain gets, the worse THAT anxiety becomes.

The "right answer" seems clear but pill/pain politics complicates everything to a point where there really isn't a clear path… and more often than not it ends up being "safest" overall to chose option two even though it's a horrible choice, because you end up not going through your meds as fast and that takes priority over everything else, including your functionality and happiness.

This is what goes through your head constantly. 24 hours a day. Even if you're not experiencing a flare-up and are doing relatively okay, this is still going through your head, because you have to constantly think about the pain vs. treatment vs. what people think vs. anxiety vs. your ever-changing limitations. I've become so obsessive over it that I regularly count my pills. I count them and then I do the math and decide how many I could reasonably take in a day for the rest of the fill time - if I needed to take them daily - and not run out. I do this every day regardless of whether or not I even need a dose that day, or even for days in a row, because it makes me feel slightly better about the whole thing if I have some sort of plan for how to make myself mildly functional in case of emergency.

All of this is also why wonderful things like The Spoon Theory are required reading when supporting, living with (or being) someone who is affected by chronic pain or illness. How many spoons I have left for the day also impact my need/want to treat my pain effectively. More spoons means I might be able to get away with less, less spoons means it's practically a death sentence to not take the maximum dose.

So, back my original point…
The weight of all that crap has been lessoned somewhat due to the new rheumatologist, who is amazeballs, especially by comparison to the previous one who saw me once a year for 3 minutes and the only advice he ever gave was, "get off your meds". Super helpful, bro - how much are you getting paid for these consults?

New Rheumatologist Lady is young, which is immediately a bonus, because the young doctors tend to spend more time actually paying attention to patients and are more likely to know about (or be open to) more modern treatments and have superior medical knowledge. Yes, this is a generalization and no, I don't care because in my experience it has been true literally 100% of the time. I find the old doctors are often big fuddy-duddies and are impossible to reason with. It always puts me at ease to see a young doctor, and she did not disappoint. She spent over an hour with me just getting my pain history, asking actually relevant questions, doing a full body exam and taking notes. I was her last appointment for the day and she went so far overtime that when I left her office the cleaning lady was the only person in the building!
She wants to schedule me for an MRI on my lower spine and lumbar area to check for inflammation so we can try to confirm the AS diagnosis, and she gave me the maximum dose of an anti-inflammatory I've tried previously with mild-to-moderate success. Turns out the increase to maximum dose really makes a big difference, because it's taken my day-to-day background pain from a 5-6 down to a 2-3 and has lengthened the time between my flare-ups as well as reduced the severity of them when they hit.
So I'd definitely call that a win.

I see her again in four months at which point she wants to go over a barrage of tests (blood, etc) to see where my body stands and how much, if any, things have changed since the last time I got a whole set back in 2009 or something. I got all the way home from the visit before I realized she forgot to give me the lab requisitions. But my experience with her was friendly and relaxed enough that I won't feel like a dick when I call and ask her to redo them.
I'm feeling very positive about her and am hoping to actually start down a path of disease management over pain management. I've spent years considering the effects and realities of the 'next step' of drugs for my disease (which involves regular injections, lots more risks and possible side effects, and an expense of about 40k a year that I have just recently learned I may actually qualify to get completely covered) and I've deteriorated enough over the last year that I think the absolute terror of biologics is now outweighed by my desire to, you know, be a person.

Without Curtis here, I am doing the job of two people 90% of the time and it's really taken a toll on me physically. As I said, getting into a daily routine has helped significantly with management of the mental side: I feel much less like a chicken with its head cut off and more like a slightly frazzled mother who can usually get shit done.
I drive him to work on our morning commute to the kids schools, and on a 'day shift' I do not see him again until the kids are in bed. On a 'night shift' he's with me for about 3 hours after the kids are at school and can get a few household chores done, and then I don't see him until midnight. The first weekend day is spent alternating sleep, because we're both so exhausted, and the second weekend day is spent catching up on all of that week's housework that I either can't do or can't do on my own (this is generally the big stuff like multiple loads of laundry all at once, or vacuuming the entire house rather than just a single room).
And we get all that wonderfulness with almost no additional pay! Hooray.
When people act like it must be super awesome having someone who is in a management position, and assume we're just livin' it up, I have to laugh because… no. Just no. We still exist many thousands under the poverty line for a family, and as a bonus I'm effectively a work widow. Aside, I'm not sure what planet other people are from where chefs make a million dollars a year but it certainly isn't this one. Unless you're Gordon Ramsay you're not exactly swimming in disposable income.

I complain and moan but it's getting better, and it's not all bad. Curtis loves his job even though it's exhausting and the staff parties are pretty awesome. This year we got a chocolate fountain. I'm not even kidding: a legitimate chocolate fountain. I was so on that.
Though I have since learned that in order to keep the chocolate flowing and prevent it from drying or gunking up the tubes, you have to have a significant amount of oil to the melted cocoa. Yum.

The kids first report cards came back earlier this month. Xan's was fantastic all around on academics, and we've been told over and over how well he's excellent in math and how amazing his reading is; with him it's just a matter of focusing on a task long enough to complete it without getting distracted by his attempts to complete a stand-up comedy routine.
Tempest on the other hand, had a horrible report card. She's gotten into this stage of life where she's enjoying the first inklings of rebellion, and part of that is doing shit all at school. This is irritating because she's brilliant (and really, this isn't just a mom thing: her IQ was tested and she's above the 95th percentile - I have it in writing), so I know she's just being lazy. The last few times she's brought homework home, she threw a fit when I asked her to double check her work and ensure it was correct because, as she put it, "everyone gets questions wrong so I don't have to make sure they're right". OMGARGH.

I talked with her at length about staying interested and finding ways to challenge yourself and all that, and she begrudgingly agreed that maybe she could try a little bit harder to actually do her work because she'd slacked off enough that even her reading mark was like… two. And she reads at a high school level.
She suggested that it would help her improve and keep interest if she could do some work at home, and Xan was all over this idea like white on rice so we set up accounts at [ Khan Learning Academy ] and had the kids start on that. They've been doing it for about a week and a half to two weeks now and have had awesome success… though I have no idea how to navigate that site well enough to figure out how to set up custom cirriculums, which is extremely frustrating. I'm also going to set them up on [ code.org ] to start them on early computer programming. Because that's an incredibly useful thing to learn overall, plus it's good for improving reading, math and a host of other things.

One thing that really pisses me off about Tempest's report card that has nothing to do with her academics is how she's being graded, year after year, for her social skills and other things that have absolutely nothing to do with schoolwork… and everything to do with having autism. She is literally having her grades brought down for being autistic.
Like, on this report card she had a terrible grade on her "oral reading" and the notation there was that her speech patterns were "quiet, uneven and halting" (ie. very typical autistic spectrum speech). THIS IS NOT SOMETHING SHE CAN CHANGE. She has been through speech and occupational therapy, she has had IEPs and school counseling and all that shit year after year that she has qualified for it and they have even worked with her specifically on these issues. While she gained a slight bit of control, we all agreed that this isn't something she's likely to "get over" simply by trying harder and in no way does it actually affect her studies, academics or ability to complete her work… and with that in mind she was released from the OTs and did not qualify for an IEP this year for the first time ever.
And yet no matter how much time I spend educating teachers, talking to counselors and all that shit it NEVER CHANGES and she still gets horrible grades on her social skills. The years before she was graded on how "well" she spoke to peers, how verbal she was in group and whether or not she made consistent eye contact. And now this year it's her patterns of speech. This kind of shit makes me so mad. It's so completely fucking unnecessary and has NOTHING to do with her ability to do her work. NOTHING to do with how well she can complete projects. It's not even remotely relevant to class work other than the part of the week where they go around the room and each kid reads aloud from a book for 3 minutes, once each. That's literally the only time it's relevant and that is really fucking reaching. Is it necessary to fail her on an entire section of her report card because she's not able to replicate neurotypical speech patterns? Awesome.

Aside from that bullshit…
This year is the first year in Tempest's schooling that she's been offered music classes, which has been immensely exciting for her. She applied for a violin or viola, because Curtis played viola through his teenage years (he also applied for violin, but was rejected for it because his hands were too large, so they gave him a viola to play instead). We got the notice back the following week that Tempest had been accepted for a viola, and I filled out the payment and rental information and sent it in. After that was a month long set of clusterfuck after clusterfuck that ended up with her missing over 15 classes that they wanted to make me pay for because no one on their end could locate the viola they'd put aside for her.
She didn't end up getting her instrument until the end of November's first week, and that was literally four days and one music lesson away from their first concert. ARGH.

I made Tempest practice like crazy every day, for at least 45 minutes - broken up into two sections - in order for her to at least basically recognize the songs. Turns out sitting in on the lessons, even with nothing to do, was enough for her because she picked it up alarmingly fast and was on par with the skills of per learned peers within those four days and played perfectly fine during the concert.
Secretly I absolutely loathe the sound of 'I have yet learned how to play violin' violin, because it sounds like a screaming cat, but she's improved so much and so quickly that it honestly didn't phase me at all. By this point in the year she's gone well past that screechy, pitchy phase of learning and her practice sessions are surprisingly smooth. She shuts herself up in her room so Z doesn't try and attack her bow while she's playing, but I can easily hear her over the living room and it's become rather soothing.

Though Zephyra tends to camp outside her door and whine, poking fingers under the door, for at least half the time she's up there. She so, so desperately wants to play too.

Curtis was working on the night of her first concert, and we were late to the venue due to Zephyra's antics so we ended up arriving with only 10 minutes to spare. And that ten minutes was entirely taken up by trying to find a fucking parking spot.
The event took place in a high school I'd never seen or visited before, so it was confusing as all hell. By the time I got into the auditorium and looked around, everyone was in position and they were just about to start. I looked around and saw an absolute mess of tightly-packed chairs and no aisles to move about in. I had the baby on my back, which was killing me, but it was easier than trying to make her follow me around when she's being so extremely two years old.
I approached one of the teachers, or someone in charge, and asked them if they had any disability priority seating. She looked lost and offered me another one of those supremely low benches that fucked me up so bad some years ago. I politely declined and let her know that it was too low to get up and down from. She shrugged, started to mumble something, then literally walked away while talking to me to avoid having to actually move a chair or something… I had no idea how to react to that.
A few parents saw/heard this and by the time I'd managed to get through one row, three separate parents got up and brought me their chairs. That was very touching, and I was so grateful for the gesture - because holy shit I am so done with administrators not giving two shits about parents and family with disabilities and how incredibly hard it is to attend or watch concerts or other events like able-bodied people.

Xan was immediately bored to death, and I told him that his job here was to politely and quietly watch - he didn't have to enjoy it. So he sat with his head against the back of the chair for the entire concert. It was barley acceptable as polite but at least he was quiet about his distaste.

Tempest was unimpressed when I took out the camera.

Zephyra was NOT having the carrier while I was sitting, so I had to risk letting her down or else be that guy in the audience with a screaming toddler. I had put my donated chair down just at the edge of a row of seats that had a 6-foot open space between them where some kids were seated on the floor, so there were a few other kids for Z to interact with. I was so worried she'd bolt, but she surprised me by finding a little girl (that looked a bit like Tempest from behind, except with blonde hair) and plunking down next to her.
She inched her way in as close as she could to this girl, who was rather put off by the whole thing, and ended up getting up to complain to her mother that she was being touched by a strange baby. I sort of heard her mother answer that at least the baby is not crying and seriously it's just a baby, I think you'll survive, and the girl begrudgingly came back to her seat. Though within moments she was loving on Z just as much as she was being loved on, and the two cuddled and sang their way through the entire performance.

Every time a song ended and applause rang out, Z would clap loudly, pose and look back at me. She was very excited that so many people had recognized her talent.

The event was a lot shorter than I'd anticipated, and when it was done we filed back out again and I pulled the kids aside for an attempt at a photo.

First of Tempest:

… in the outfit she picked out entirely on her own, accessories included. The skirt is actually one of mine. It doesn't quite fit her, hence the belt, but she made it work.

And then of all three:

I enjoy this one because Tempest and Xan look rather dashing and Z looks like she crawled out from under a bridge.

In other firsts, this year has also been the first year of the fake tree… because we are not permitted to have live (or half-dead, as it were) trees in the complex. We went out and got a white one so it would look interesting, though Curtis absolutely insisted that we try to find a bright Barbie pink one - [ which, yes, actually exist ] - and was legitimately disappointed that Wal*Mart did not have one in stock.
We brought it home and Curtis put it together while dinner was in the oven, and we spent the next few hours decorating it. One of things about moving house is that you cycle through all the old boxes you've had sitting in storage or stuffed under stairs for years, so you rediscover all this cool stuff you forgot you had sitting around. One of those things are these absolutely ancient holiday decorations that belonged to my grandmother. We usually put up the ones she made out of embroidery and cotton that are shaped like all sorts of storybook characters, but these ones are these incredibly delicate little foil-type balls in all manner of iridescent colours. They really are gorgeous to look at, but oh so fragile.

The tree looks gorgeous all done up with them…

… but the baby immediately shattered five of them in the ensuing days, so we had to move them all up to the higher branches.

The kids were very proud of themselves after decorating the tree, and requested a photo be taken of them in front of it.

(That Santa hat came in a jar Tempest won at her school's holiday festival thing, and it has been literally loved to death. There isn't a single seam on it that hasn't been ripped open).

After taking that photo I decided to try and do a proper holiday one, since I didn't do one last year. The next night I set up the lighting rig and reflectors, got the kids all dressed up and looking nice (though Tempest insisted on wearing the hat). Z was, as usual, impossible. I had to bribe her with a candy cane before she'd sit, and so had to completely give up the fantasy of getting her to smile. Tempest and Xan were a complete breeze through the whole thing.

I heart it.

Xan's disposition was improved by the fact that I asked him to be my 'light model' while I tested various settings on the monolight. I told him I just needed him to stand there in front of the tree, and he didn't have to smile or anything because how he looked didn't matter as long as he was facing me.
His eyes got all big, "You mean I can do anything I want? For the photos? ANYTHING?! I don't even have to stand still!?"
"As long as you're facing me, yes. I'll let you know when I'm done".

So he got all his crazy out beforehand.

I am supposed to be knitting a number of Yule gifts this year but that is going more slowly than I anticipated. All Xan has asked for from me is a knitted creeper (from Minecraft). He told me that he actually needs two: one to "show off" at school and another to sleep with at night, but, "one doll can probably do the job of both", he says.
I'm trying to finish a pair of gloves for Tempest right now and every afternoon Xan comes home and asks me if I've started on his creeper doll yet. Even if I had I'm not supposed to tell you, this is not how this works, Xan!

I did manage to finish a doll for one of his friends that I'm immensely proud of. I found this incredible pattern online (for free!) for a crochet doll with completely posable joints. Like, completely. Even the head! A friend of mine on Facebook was making her daughter a set of the "Equestria Girls" MLP dolls using this pattern and posted her in-progress photos; then passed on the links to me when I was desperate to be hooked up with that shit.

The finished doll:

I took a few images of her "naked" to show how posable she was. And I don't just mean you can move the limbs, I mean it's actually literally posable: the limbs stay where you put them 100% of the time!

Seriously is that not an adorable pattern? It's available on the "By Hook, By Hand" site and is called the [ "Bleuette" doll ]. The pattern is full of colour photographs that show you exactly how to attach the limbs so that they'll all be posable. It's totally awesome. If this doll pattern isn't your style, I also found [ this ] awesome tutorial from the 'Idiots Guide' series on creating posable limbs. That one gives you enough info to easily modify it to fit pretty much any pattern you want; dolls, creatures, or whatever. Here's [ one more ] explaining how to use 'bear joints' for crocheted work, and an alternative using regular buttons.

The dress I made using the top part of the [ "mock smock" bodice ] pattern, available on the same site and made specifically to fit the Bleu doll. It is easily the most weirdly complicated crochet I have ever done, but the result is really nice.

My finished dress also used a tiny bit of pink embroidery thread to go over the smocked areas, but they're already stuck together so this isn't a true "smocking" job. The dress pattern asks that you sew on a fabric skirt, but I suck at sewing so I did one using crochet instead and just fucked around with double and treble crochets until it looked nice.

I used the ideas from the Bleu pattern to do her face. I've never done a face this way before, and after this I don't think I'll never do any other face ever again! The tip about using red crayon, rubbed in with a licked thumb, to create a blushed cheek is totally brilliant and creates a wonderfully cute effect.

Also? THIS HAIR!

SO AWESOME.

I used [ this tutorial ] for the hair, which I got after asking another Ravelry user how she did her doll's amazing hair. Once again, I will never do doll wigs another way ever again because how friggin' awesome is that hair? It's thick and secure enough that you can brush it with a wide-toothed comb and even pull it up into ponytails or braids or whatever and there are no bald or thinning spots. It took forever and was kind of a pain in the ass but it's so, so worth it.

This is the hardest I've ever worked on a crochet doll, but it's also by far the nicest one I've done and I'm so thrilled with it that I plan on making more for the kids and for friends' birthdays.

Quotes of the Day:
This one made it to my blog's Facebook, so if you're a follower there you may have seen it already.

Tempest: "Let's play house!"
Xan: "You can't play house inside a house."
Me: "Playing house means someone plays the mom, someone else plays dad, and someone plays the baby."
Tempest: "Zephyra can play the baby."
Me: "Who's the mom?"
Tempest: "We have no parents."
Me: "Then who pays the bills in your house?"
Xan: "It's an abandoned house."
Me: "That sounds dangerous. Who cooks your food?"
Tempest: "We make our own food."
Me: "How do you buy the ingredients?"
Tempest: "We steal them."
Me: "What?! You run a terrible house! How would you steal?!"
Xan holds out one of the handles from the blinds. "We have a sword."
Me: "You're terrible at playing house."
Tempest: "You can do anything with your imagination."
Xan: "...And a sword."

A few weeks ago Z had the worst (and most bizarre) case of yeast rash I'd ever encountered. It came on almost immediately following TWO standard disposables on her bum the days before, which were used during a laundry mix-up that left us with no diapers for about 4 hours during an extremely poopy time. So, while we were doing the hard-core stripping washes on the cloth stash we got a tiny pack of 7th Generation (no bleach, no latex, no dyes, etc etc) to use on her.
During a walk around the village with Xan, one of the 7th Gen's fell out of the stroller and onto the wet ground. As I picked it up, Xan commented that I'd have to throw it in the wash when I got home.
"It's a disposable diaper hon, it doesn't go in the wash."
"You don't wash those? Why?"
"They're made to be thrown away after they've been dirtied."
"What? Every single one of them?"
"Yes, that's why they're called 'disposable diapers'."
"The whole pack, though? Every diaper in THE WHOLE PACK gets thrown away? Not washed?"
"Yep."
"But... why? Why would you buy a whole pack of diapers just to use once and throw away?!"
"Most people do. Very very few people use cloth diapers like we do."
"BUT WHY? It would cost so much money and it's such a waste of that money!! It's like, 'oh no my baby peed let me just throw my money in the trash!'."

This one was overheard at the table while I was doing dishes.
Xan: "Zephyra is just like a smoker."
Tempest: "What?"
Xan: "She's smelly, she's cranky all the time, and she always has something in her mouth. The only difference is she's not yellow."
Tempest: "Well, she'll grow out of it."
Xan: "That's true. She'll stop being stinky eventually... but the smokers will stink and stink until they die."

Links of the Day:
Pro Infirmis: Because who is perfect? - "Disabled mannequins will be eliciting astonished looks from passers-by on Zurich's Bahnhofstrasse today. Between the perfect mannequins, there will be figures with scoliosis or brittle bone disease modelling the latest fashions. One will have shortened limbs; the other a malformed spine. The campaign has been devised for the International Day of Persons with Disabilities by Pro Infirmis, an organization for the disabled. Entitled "Because who is perfect? Get closer.", it is designed to provoke reflection on the acceptance of people with disabilities."
10 things wrong with anti-bed-sharing campaigns - Birth Without Fear blog posts a fantastic, well-sourced and non-judgey take-down of the baseless anti-cosleeping rhetoric.
America's poor are its most generous givers - Something that poor people won't find surprising at all…
No one brings you dinner when your daughter is an addict - A thought-provoking piece about the lack of social support families receive when someone is suffering from a mental illness, or anything even remotely 'taboo'.
Shakespeare, the original pronunciation - This is an absolutely fascinating video. A professor of linguistics and his son have managed to accurately recreate the "OG" accent of early English, the accent that Shakespeare himself spoke and intended his plays to be performed in... and they began coaching actors at the Globe Theatre reconstruction how to perform in that accent. And suddenly puns, and jokes and rhymes just popped off the pages and the plays and sonnets had entirely new depths.
Dear people who do not have a child with disabilities - This may be something I've shared before, but I re-stumbled over it the other day and wanted to share it again. This should be required reading for anyone who has family, or friends, who are parents of a child with special needs. Choice quote: "We aren’t different, we parents of special needs kids. I promise I’m just like you. I kick ass at some parts of parenting, and I’m lousy at other parts, and I’m very ordinary at most of it. You’d be horrified if you heard a group of parents of kids with issues like Carter’s talking amongst ourselves; we use gallows humour and and talk in ways we know would alienate you, and we are very un-angel-like. We are deeply angry sometimes. Wounded. Broken.
But if you come to us and say, hey, I’m in trouble, I have a kid with problems and I think I belong in your club, we will gather you into our circle so fast you won’t quite know what hit you. We will listen to you cry and we won’t tell you to stop. We won’t tell you to be strong because we know you are being exactly as strong as you can be. We know that your need is deep and that you can’t handle this, even as you are in the midst of handling it."

Little lost boys

babyslime — Tue, 05 Nov 2013 06:30:54 GMT

Two days before Jericho's birthday a tiny baby bunny appeared outside my back door, which is sliding glass leading into a small, but high-fenced backyard. I see the babies often enough in little groups around the complex, tiny ones don't generally wander too far from the nest until they're about the size of a large softball and then start to explore more readily. This one was the smallest I'd ever seen.
Initially it seemed like he was eating something, so I watched him, but after a few minutes it was clear something was off. He was just sitting there on the cement, inches outside my door, occasionally swaying like he was falling asleep on his feet. He didn't really seem to be eating, or doing anything, and even after more than 30 minutes he hadn't moved an inch other than his rather ominous swaying.

I approached the back door and clicked open the lock, expecting him to run away as soon as I slid the door open, but to my surprise he merely opened his eyes and looked toward me. I stared at him for a moment, waiting to see if he'd come to his senses, but he never moved. Slowly I approached him, knelt down and reached out a finger to touch him… and did. He was as soft as silk; I've never touched anything so soft. He leaned into my hand when I stroked him, and as soon as his eyes closed he fell into my palm as though stricken with exhaustion. I'd never gotten that close to one of the wild rabbits before, most certainly never the extremely skittish babies.
I very gently picked him up and cradled him in two hands. I could feel his little heart pounding, though his sleepy eyes betrayed any fear he may have felt. I knew I should leave him, but was afraid he'd freeze in the cold wind, so I took him inside. Just to warm up, I told myself.
I held him close to me and within moments he was limp and asleep, his heart slowing, and his body slowly warming up. He lay there in my hands unmoving and asleep for an hour. When I tried to put him down, he roused within moments and scrambled out of the box, climbing back into my hand when I presented it and immediately closing his eyes in contentment again. As much as it tugged at me, my heart felt heavy as it occurred to me that me may be sick, or dying. This isn't normal baby behaviour, by any stretch.

I had to go pick up the kids from school, and decided to put him back outside that night after he'd warmed and safely slept. I know that even small babies can be fairly independent, and the mothers return in the evening to feed them. I also know that the neighbour's cat likes to stalk and kill the tiny babies, and she is put inside at night, so it was doubly safer to wait until the evening particularly if there's any reason to suspect the little guy is ill.
I told myself that if I had any reason to be concerned past that time, I'd call a vet or rescue. He's no pet, nor do I want another one, but he seemed so strangely helpless laying out there swaying with exhaustion in the breeze and it pains me to imagine doing nothing as he freezes and sways in the yard.

When I brought the kids home I made them sit quietly so I could show them what I'd found. I reminded them that he was not a pet, and we'd be putting him back out once he was a little more energetic. I also told them that babies were fragile, and there was a strong possibility that he was sick due to the way he'd been acting when I found him. They nodded dutifully, and each asked for a chance to touch him.
Xan gently ran a finger between his little ears, and he closed his eyes in contentment, his heart slowing. I almost expected him to purr.

When I had to cook and clean, Tempest took over the cuddling, since he didn't seem to like being put down. He seemed to panic when not held or stroked.

Shortly after we arrived home my neighbour, J, came by and asked me if I'd seen a tiny baby in my yard. I explained to her what I saw, and sheepishly admitted that I'd taken him in. She thanked me profusely, and told me she was terribly worried that he wasn't healthy. She'd seen him the night before on the edge of my yard and hers, shivering and unmoving, and had taken him in after calling her friend who is a vet. Her friend told her to put him back out early in the morning, in hopes it would prevent him from freezing to death overnight. She had… and he had not moved since. It had been over 8 hours. She hadn't seen him eat or drink, and had been watching him out her door in hopes his mother would return, up until she had to leave briefly for work and he'd disappeared (which is when I'd found him).

She told me she'd call her friend again and report the changes, and get back to me on what she'd said.
While I waited, I continued to give him cuddles either by me, or Tempest. Over the next few hours his lethargy seemed to abate some and his body temperature had improved dramatically. Tempest managed to get him to eat some lettuce and a tiny bite of carrot, and I got him to drink water from my fingertips. I peed him soon after, as I learned to do when fostering baby animals back in my SPCA days, and his urine was a better colour now than it was when I tried to do it originally. Once I'd done that and put him down, he peed on his own and moved around the small box to where the food was. Within another hour, his fur had stopped 'tenting' when pulled back and he seemed less lethargic. Relieved, I told Tempest that we'd put him back out that night to find his mom and she was to keep an eye out in the back to see if one came looking for him. Maybe he'd just been separated from his mom long enough to suffer from dehydration and cold, and now that he was better he'd be okay finding his way back on his own.

J came by and told me that her friend wanted to check on him that evening before we put him back out; she was still concerned about his initial behaviour. She seemed to think there was a chance he didn't have a mama or had been separated from her by some distance, given his extreme lethargy and dehydration.
In the meantime, J had found another baby next to the house with similar behaviour, called her friend back and took it in. She asked me to wait until she returned with news before putting "mine" back out, as her friend emphasized the risk of it freezing to death if it was ill or orphaned.
When she returned she said her friend had been called away in an emergency and the rest of the staff wouldn't speak to her or give her any information. The only thing they suggested was to syringe it water overnight and bring it to rescue in the morning, but also seemed concerned by the behaviour they showed when we found them and indicated that it was not a good sign that they'd make it regardless of care.

While I waited for her to return with news I got a warm cloth and gave the baby a finger bath, peed it again in case it was still having trouble (it wasn't), and offered it some more water. It seemed to greatly enjoy the bath, and fell asleep in my hand so hard that it leaned back with it's paws out.

Shortly after this, having only been in my home a few hours, I saw it stretch in a strange way that I now recognize was a seizure. I didn't realize that's what I was seeing until it happened again, and I realized that he may not be as healthy as I'd wished. His brief improvement upon being brought in and warmed up gave me false hope that he'd be okay to release, or surrender to rescue when they requested us to come in the following morning.

Within a few more hours, it was clear he was too sick to save. Warming him had only saved him a slow death by freezing, but couldn't fix the underlying problem.
J was over with the littermate when he died in my hands after suffering a long, hard seizure. She wept openly, but I found myself unable to shed my tears. She apologized over and over for being so emotional, embarrassed by her grief in contrast to my stoic facade. Her guilt was heavy, and she reported that the vet had said there was nothing that could be done given it's behaviour over the last two days and the conditions under which we'd found him. She'd strongly suspected it may have been poisoned or otherwise seriously ill, and the warming had merely delayed the inevitable. At least now he'd died comfortable and fed.

The sibling, at least, had continued to improve with warming and syringing and was successfully released early that morning and has been okay since.

We walked outside together to watch the sibling bound through the grass near it's nest, or at least what we suspected was its nest, before curling up in a little pile of hay and falling asleep.
J cried and hugged me, caught between apologies and gratitude that I'd found him and at the very least saved him the slow death by freezing; words her vet friend had also given her. I tried to tell her that the next day was the anniversary of my son's death, but the words stuck in my throat. I don't know why I even wanted to say it… I barely know her at all. It took me several tries to get it out, and when it left my lips I heard her gasp and cry harder. I couldn't look at her face, for fear that I'd join her. Tears stung my eyes, but I knew if I let them come I wouldn't be able to stop, and this was not a place where I was ready to break down.
"Maybe he chose you for a reason," she said. She immediately chided herself, realizing how terrible it sounded to send death to someone already struck by grief. I didn't take offence, as strange as it sounded I understood what she meant to express, and I appreciated it.
"It's okay," I assured her.
She went inside a few minutes later to call her husband at work and ask him to come home, too overwhelmed to be alone.

I came in and wrapped the little baby in a cotton prefold and put him somewhere safe, waiting until the kids came home to do anything more. It was Hallowe'en day, and as much as I feared it would destroy the evening for them, I couldn't bury him without them there.
I'd wanted to delay it as long as possible, but they both knew something was wrong when I said I'd talk to them about the bunny when we got home, instead of answering their questions in the car.

We all cried together as we went into the backyard to dig a grave. Tempest asked to hold and cuddle him, stroked his fur and held him close, weeping silently and watching her tears fall over his tiny body. Xan was unmoving until I placed him in the grave: he collapsed into sobs as he placed the first handful of dirt inside, watching the grit slip between his fingers and feeling the finality of the gesture. He asked to go inside before we were done in hopes he could escape it. I gave him permission, but he stayed to hear my eulogy nonetheless. When I was done he ran inside and grabbed three baby carrots from the fridge to put atop the mound.
"It's for his spirit," he explained. "In case he gets hungry on his way to somewhere else."
"Or maybe for his brother when he visits," suggested Tempest. Xan nodded, but said nothing.

They were subdued for the next few hours, but still eager for the night's festivities. We continued last-minute work on their costumes, and their moods slowly improved as the evening came on. By the time Curtis got home at 5:15, they were looking forward to going out, and able to temper their grief. Both greeted him with hugs and explained what had happened. Tempest began to cry again and she hid her face in Curtis' chest as Xan told him about the grave, the speech and the carrots.
"He was so soft," whispered Tempest, almost too quiet to hear.

He's the third baby I know of that's died, or been found dead near here recently. At least, it's the third one I've seen dead since moving in. I know the babies have a very high mortality rate and are prone to illness, but it doesn't make it any less sad. Other neighbours have reported that the number is much higher than three. It makes me wonder if someone isn't doing it on purpose.

In spite of the grief, the night went on without much incident. I was in a pretty extreme amount of pain after the non-stop work from Xan's birthday party, followed by costume prep and general house cleaning all done on my own, so Curtis took over the first leg of trick-or-treating while I stayed at home and waited for my pain meds to kick in. I went through 3/4 of the candy we'd bought within an hour or so. They weren't kidding when they said this community was a popular spot.
This was Z's first active Hallowe'en, and she was dressed in a fleecy pumpkin sleeper so she wouldn't get too cold while she walked around. She held out a little Monster's Inc. candy bag and called, "Treat, treat, treat!" at each doorstep.
The Elders ditched Curtis and Z as soon as they were able to sneak away, and showed up back at our door after they'd managed to visit every house in the complex. I texted Curtis to let him know where they were (we knew they'd return when they were done, so it wasn't a particularly big deal for them to go off on their own within the complex, just mildly annoying that they didn't ask permission first) and he came back with Zephyra a few minutes later.
"She's done anyway, so I'll take over the door if they still want to go out," he reported.
Zephyra held up her bag to me, "CAN-KNEE! CAN-KNEE!" she announced, shaking with excitement.

I walked through the surrounding neighbourhoods with the Elders for another 40 minutes before we retired home for a late dinner, a few handfuls of sugar and bed. They were particularly excited to hit this one place they call "The mansion" which looks oddly overbuilt for the area with its gargoyles and golden gates. It did not disappoint: they gave out king size bars.

Xan was eager to get out of his costume, complaining that it was too constricting to wear for all night. Once he was out of it, Zephyra climbed inside. We'd created it entirely out of cardboard moving boxes, and given the crappy construction I'm actually pretty happy with it. Almost everyone who saw him knew he was a Minecraft 'creeper'; only one father mistakenly called him Gumby throughout the evening (we passed him near a dozen times before coming to his house after he'd taken his kids home for the night).

Tempest's Marceline costume was recognized about half the time, the rest didn't seem to know the show, or the character at all.

(Not pictured: the red boots).

Once she even passed by kids dressed as Finn and Jake, who stopped to pose with her. Another kid dressed as Minecraft's "Steve" pretended to run screaming from Xan upon sighting him. There were hundreds of kids everywhere, and the candy rush didn't slow until between 7:30 and 8pm. Curtis ran out of candy by the time I returned, but our stash lasted almost through the end. This is the first year we've had a lot of kids and gotten even remotely close to running low. Every other year we generally have most of the bowl left and end up eating it ourselves over the next few days. It's stupidly fun, and makes me wish we had the money to set up something really fun in our yard next time.

Curtis' weekend started that evening so he didn't need to put in a special request for the first. We stayed up late playing video games on the couch, long after the kids went to bed.

On the morning of the first he did not wake me, and quietly took the baby downstairs with him once she became restless in hopes that I would stay asleep. I was gifted the late morning both to help relieve the pain and exhaustion from the last few days of work, and because Curtis knew I'd need the time to myself.
I fell in and out of a dreamless sleep for hours before finally giving up around 11:30 when Curtis opened up the door to let Z in for a nurse. She approached the bed with both a whine and smile, and I lifted the blankets to let her in. She climbed in eagerly, inching next to me and curling her body up against my stomach before pawing into my nightclothes in search of a breast. She gave a quiet, happy coo as she drank and stroked my chest lovingly. Curtis slid into the bed next to her and cuddled in close so she'd be secured between us. When he drew an arm over us, it was long enough to pull us both in for a tight hug. Within moments he was sound asleep, and Z's heavy lids told me she'd soon follow.

I watched as her eyelids stopped fluttering, and felt her hand let go of mine as she surrendered to exhaustion, the tension slowly leaving her body and her breath slowing. She so rarely naps without a fight these days, and it has become a very rare thing to watch her fall asleep peacefully. Suddenly, I was crying. I don't even know why it struck me then; the tears came on without warning and once I lost the fight to hold them back they came like rivers.
I felt guilty that I had not cried for him in some time, and the agony of that guilt and grief is strangely comforting. And I was desperate for anything to fill the void I was feeling that morning.

I remembered the words of my therapist some years ago, when she reminded me that pain is not the only way to keep his memory alive.
"I don't ever want it to stop hurting," I'd told her.
"Why?"
"Because if it does, then I'm okay with it. I don't want to be okay with it. I can't ever let him go."

When Zephyra's breath was slow and even, I slipped out from under her arm and rolled out of bed. I walked over to the sliding glass door next to our bed, and watched as the yard below me came into view. I rested my forehead against the glass and looked down upon the grave we'd dug for the bunny the afternoon before. One of the carrots was gone, and another had fallen to the side. My tears continued to fall; even so many years on it's easier to cry for another than for my own.

I rounded the bed and headed for the bathroom to clean my face, but was stopped by Curtis' hand. I don't know that he saw me crying, but he'd awakened as I walked past him. He pulled me down for a kiss, and told me he'd make a special dinner that night. I smiled, but I didn't mean it. As much as I appreciate his gestures, it's hard for the warmth to reach me.

I spent most of the day wishing I could go back to sleep. I always think the next year will be easier on me - next year I'll be more prepared and able to face the day without feeling like I have a weight tied to my legs - and every year the day comes and it's never as I'd hoped. Some of the recent years have left me unable to build up the energy to want a cake to celebrate him with the kids, or even leave my house and interact with people, for any reason. It took every ounce of strength in me to join Curtis and the kids on a walk to the library much later in the day, and the only reason I went is because I knew the fresh air might help me feel less ill.

We didn't do anything for him all day.
No cakes, no eulogies and no conversations with the kids.
My mom picked the Elders up from school and took them back to her house for a visit until late afternoon; she even fed them dinner so we wouldn't have to worry about it, and gave them a few small toys to keep them entertained. Curtis and I spent the time playing games or laying atop each other on the couch in silence while the baby took an extra long nap upstairs. But no matter what I tried to fill my head with, nothing could remove me far enough to stop the sting. I fell in and out of sleep on the couch, and when I finally woke Curtis had gone upstairs to take a shower with the baby after she'd awakened.

We waited until after the kids were in bed to start our dinner, and Curtis' promise didn't disappoint: he made me eggs with maple bacon, sizzled ham and home-made hash browns all piled together with a blend of spices and sauce that made it burn my lips when I ate it. It's a weird sort of comfort food for me, and I was grateful for it.

We sat in silence again as the clock turned to 10:47, and I cried some more. He held me, and we fell asleep in each other's arms.
For years before him, we slept as far apart as two people could while sharing the same bed. I couldn't stand to touch his skin at night: too hot and too claustrophobic. I even put pillows between us to avoid him.
The first night I was home after he died, we fell asleep holding each other and crying. We never slept apart again, and still drift off every night in each other's arms. Now I can't sleep at all without his arms around me and his body warming me. Every night for eight years, save for the ones I was traveling… and they were awful without Curtis' heat next to me.

Eight years.
Eight years gone and almost a decade without him.
I think every day how much better everything would seem with another little boy in the house. I know I'm romanticizing it; the idea of his life and a future I'll never know. I'm not naive: parenting is never all flowers and rainbows and I know he and Xan would probably fight just as much as Xan and Tempest do… but it's hard not to wonder, and wish to have seen, how much different it could have been if he'd stayed.

Give a little, take a little

babyslime — Mon, 04 Nov 2013 04:31:06 GMT

Tempest has been having these wild mood swings lately that are as exhausting as they are frustrating. When she's in the midst she's red-faced, squalling and hollering at the top of her lungs like she's 3 years old again and just wants to hear herself scream. I'm left rather baffled on how to respond to her in a positive or productive way because they tend to come completely by surprise, and often have the most inane starting points. That helplessness in turn lends itself to frustration, then anger, and the dark side. And then we just end up yelling at each other for no reason. Because of the dark side.

When I try to talk her down or rationalize with her she just screeches her words louder and louder until eventually all I can do is just remove her (or myself) from the situation before I succumb to my own boiling rage and give in to the temptation to join her.
The whole situation always seems more volatile with Tempest simply for the fact that I'm not accustomed to her being over-the-top emotional drama from Xan over ridiculous bullshit, I almost never see it from her and so it always has me taken aback and completely unprepared to handle it.

The latest one started at bedtime when I asked her to get ready for bed and please take her clothes up and put them away. All of a sudden she was too sick and her legs hurt too much to do anything, so I pointed out the fact that not two minutes ago she was literally chasing Zephyra through the house laughing so she's clearly not as sick as she thinks she is. And instantly it's waterworks and screeching that gravely devil-posessed scream about how I never listen to her and she's just too sick and tired to do anything and I'm the worst mother who ever lived.
From there it just got worse until I finally told her to please just go straight to bed if it's that bad. Predictably, that was just gasoline on the fire.

After half-escorting-half-dragging her upstairs to her room, I opened the door to find a floor absolutely covered in snotty tissues. And seriously, they were everywhere. I was seriously disgusted, and said so, and told her that she needs to pick that shit up right this minute and put it in the trash. Lots and lots more drama ensued. Now her legs don't just simply hurt, but are practically broken in horrible, agonizing pain and how could I torment her so?
Ugh.
I really do not have the patience for this kind of crap at this point in the evening. The bedtime circus that comes from having three kids who are all at varying points of bedtime resistance; either because they don't want to go to bed and I can't make them, or because they just want to go to sleep right fucking now and refuse to do any of the prep work (tidy up their bed, brush teeth, get pyjamas on, fill up their water bottles, etc). This leaves me so drained that I lose all my patience to fondly hand-hold someone through their cyclic temper tantrums. Especially when that someone is way too old for this shit.

The argument reached its peak when Tempest said it was my fault she'd thrown her snotty tissues all over the floor, because I was the one that refused to let her take trash cans into her bedroom (something I was completely unaware that I was forbidding her to do up until this moment. Though she did have a point; dragging the household garbage in your bedroom is not sanitary nor advisable). I told her that was really gross, and that she knows perfectly well how to not throw garbage on her floor no matter how sick she may feel. There really is no excuse for that crap. Especially when it comes to really gross, disgusting snotty garbage. She screamed and cried the entire 10 steps to the bathroom and attempted to drag the garbage can in with her. I again told her no, at which point she picked up the trash and threw it across the room, spreading gross bathroom trash everywhere.

I was absolutely dumbfounded. For a long moment we just sat there staring at each other. Me with my mouth agape, frozen in anger and my hands hanging helplessly up in the air; her waiting to see if I was going to scream, cry or run and silently challenging me to choose.
Finally I found my voice, and said very quietly, "Don't leave this room until you've cleaned this up," then left. She screeched as I descended the stairs.

Xan, never failing to miss an opportunity to be 'the good one', quietly came down after me and dutifully reported that he's finished all of his bedtime preparations without being asked more than once and is now ready for me to read to him. I told him honestly that I was too angry and needed a few minutes to calm down before I came upstairs. He replied that it was fine to wait and reminded me that he'd be in bed reading until I was ready.

About ten minutes later Tempest came down and told me she was done cleaning up. I called her over and told her rather sternly that she is not to ever pull that kind of shit - for any reason - and that if she really is suffering enough of a runny nose to burn through an entire box of snotty tissues she can just use a goddamn plastic or paper bag as temporary garbage. She nodded, still battling with the last of her tantrum, and I went upstairs to read to Xan.
When I came back down to the couch Tempest was filling up her water bottle in the kitchen, sniffling and weeping loudly. I was unsure if this was a taunt, or she was legitimately upset about something, so I came in and asked her what was wrong.
"I don't know," she said with an emphasis of attitude.
"I'm not mad anymore, Tempest. You can tell me if you're truly not feeling well."
"I DON'T KNOOOOOW," she yelled. Then she started sobbing. And not the tantrum angry sob, but a legitimate sad and pathetic sob.
"Would it help if I gave you a hug?"
She considered this, then nodded. I hugged her. "I'm sorry for yelling at you." I felt her nod again. "Really, are you okay? Why are you crying?"
"I really don't know."
"Are you hurt?"
"No."
"Are you sick?"
"No." She'd been suffering a mildly stuffed nose the last day or two, but she knew I was asking if she had any further illness or symptoms than that.
"Then, are you just crying for no reason?"
She nodded, then sobbed again. I hugged her some more. After a moment she said, "I get really angry and it just comes out like I can't control it. And then sometimes I get really sad and it comes out. And it's really big."
"And you don't know why?"
"Yeah. It's just something that happens. It's kinda scary."
"Do you just mean the last few days, or more than that?"
"More. Like the last few months but more lately."
I bent down a little so I could look her in the eye. "Sometimes we call that mood swings. Do you remember how we talked about entering puberty and some of the things that it does to your body and brain?"
"Yeah," she answered meekly.
"Mood swings can be one of those things," I said. She was paying more attention now, and seemed less upset.

We stood in the kitchen for a good 20 minutes while I talked about hormones, puberty and emotions. We've had lots and lots of puberty talks over her life - a lot more frequently since it became obvious that she was entering it - but the emotional side has not come up that often, nor in any real detail. It was one of those things that really didn't occur to me to go too deeply into when we were having these discussions, and as a result it's been a pretty neglected part of the sex and body talks.
The more I explained the less tense she looked; and as the adrenaline kick from her tantrum finally wore off, exhaustion took its place and I noticed her eyelids starting to droop.

Before she succumbed to sleep we made a rule about counting to three in the midst of a big fight when things got too intense, and another about being able to ask for 'emergency space' when she felt overwhelmed by her emotions.

After Curtis got home from work, at nearly midnight, I talked with him about the evening's events. He also noted how intense her emotional output had become recently, and agreed that it was probably related to her descent into puberty.
I told him about the talk I'd had with Tempest but expressed my frustration and worry over how consuming the issue was for her. I felt really unsure about how I'd approached it with her once the argument was over. Of course, he didn't see it with the same pessimism I did, and reminded me that we'd had a similar breakthrough with my sister over her emotional control and ability to communicate… but it took years for her to get to a point to even come to a point where she was able to say the things Tempest had that night.
"The fact that she's even able to tell you these things means you've already opened the doors to that level of communication, and that's really good. It means she can keep talking," he assured. I felt mildly better, but still not entirely confident. The older she gets the harder it is to feel like I'm doing the right thing - the answers are less clear as kids turn into pre-teens and young people, and they begin to diverge from the careful plans and routines that you'd set out when raising them. There comes a point where no amount of rules and will can change things, and you have to let go and surrender to the hope that you've created a strong foundation for trust and love that will carry them through. Tempest isn't there yet, but she's fast approaching that point of her life, and I can feel her childhood slipping from of my fingers as she pulls away.

Since we moved here, she's spent more and more time alone and exploring. When she gets home from school she barely stays long enough to unload her backpack before jetting out into the courtyard to find her new friends. She's often out there so long that I have to go calling for her at dinner-time, 3-4 hours later. On weekends I may not see her at all for as long as five hours. She's carved out her own group of friends, activities and is learning how to be independent from her family and siblings - much to Xan's chagrin. It's something that I spent a long period of her life worrying would never happen, and now that it is I find I'm torn between pride and sorrow as it becomes harder to convince her to spend time with us.

One of the things she spends a lot of time doing is just sitting in the grass, quietly watching the wild bunnies and hoping to earn their trust. To our surprise, it actually worked. There's this one albino bunny in the complex that is always alone and seen very frequently in the area of our home. Our neighbour has named it Conejo, which Tempest picked up immediately. She spent hours out there every day just sitting across from it, inching closer over time and carefully placing scraps of veggies on the ground and waiting to see if it would approach. Bit by bit it did, and bit by bit she moved the veggies closer to her until it would feed from her hands. It took another few days before she could reach out and pet it while it ate. A week more and it willingly approaches her, and licks her when she walks up. But her alone; no one else can get that close without it startling. She adores this rabbit, particularly since it seems to be rather exiled from the other bunnies (they're sometimes seen attacking or otherwise acting aggressively toward it) and takes time out of every day to say hello to it after school.
I'm amazed at her seemingly endless patience and care when it comes to animals. We've been calling her the "bunny whisperer" since she got so close to them. She's also been the only person we've seen that the tiny babies don't immediately scatter from. A few days ago she sat down in the grass near a nest and I watched as one of the palm-sized babies approached her completely on it's own, crawled inside her coat, explored her, sat on her knees, let her pet it, and then quietly hopped off a few minutes later. I can't even get within ten feet of one without it running away, no matter how slowly I go. It's like she's magic; or, at the very least, she's spent enough time with them that they know her as safe.

Xan's birthday party was on the 26th, and was another year absolutely packed with kids. On his previous birthday I was stricken with knee-buckling panic attacks at the prospect of a filled house and spent most of this one in the kitchen trying to catch up on food preparation in hopes I would avoid the same fate. I'm not really sure why the anxiety hits me so hard; I haven't had that problem with Tempest's parties, even when they get very busy. Maybe it has something to do with having Xan's indoors where it seems more loud and claustrophobic. Also, all of the parents stick around… which is something I'm not accustomed to. Whenever I had Tempest's parties the kids were dropped off, so I was mostly entertaining young children and that's not nearly as hard or panic-inducing as trying to entertain children plus ten sets of parents I've only met in passing. This birthday and Xan's previous one both had every single set of parents stay through all of the festivities.

I spent the previous night up until 4am, listening to the Game of Thrones audiobooks and finishing up the designs for food placards. I did everything by hand, as our printer is currently out of ink, and carefully wrote out each item's name in Minecraft-font and drew the little icons based on screen caps from the game. I set everything up on the kitchen table with the crafting bucket and used the kids' fine-tipped felt markers to do everything, suffering a terrible humpback for my trouble - and in spite of all that work I still needed to put in two hours of finishing details the next afternoon before it was all done. I cut it so close to party time that the first guest had already arrived just as I was finishing the last two labels.
The sleep deprivation wasn't doing me any favours, because when it was all said and done I'd made two stupidly awful spelling mistakes and did not even notice them until long after they had been sitting on the table in view of every strange set of parents I'd never talked to before. Awesome.

So alongside their lava blocks and green slime balls the kids also enjoyed "emerads" and "daimonds". Fuuuuuuuu.

In spite of the HORRIBLE GLARING ERRORS the food spread was actually pretty damn awesome. I made up three different lists of foods several days before: junk food, proteins/carbs and fruits/veggies, and then decided on a handful out of each category to prepare that would be fun, but still sorta balanced in terms of nutrition. Converting it to Minecraft-friendly code was more of a challenge.

In the end I decided on:
"Sticks" - Straight pretzel sticks.
"Torch" - Cut up hot dogs dipped in ketchup and mustard.
"Gold Nuggets" - Buttered popcorn.
"Slime balls" - Green grapes.
"Melon" - Watermelon pieces.
"Carrot" - Baby carrots.
"Emeralds" (emerads… ugh) - Cucumber squares.
"Slime" (as in the monsters) - Green Jell-O squares. We ran out of lime Jell-O so Curtis made up some lemon and dyed it green with some blue food colouring.
"Mushrooms" - Large marshmallows dipped in white chocolate melting wafers (dyed a pinky-red colour with gel food colouring), and dotted with buttercream icing.
"Lava" - Strawberry Jell-O squares.
"Diamonds" (Or diamonds, as it were) - Blue rice krispy squares.
"Gold bars" - Chocolate loonies (coins).
"Creeper Juice" came in two flavours: limeade juice and Sprite.

The night before I'd created a giant creeper face out about 100 3x3 inch squares of coloured construction paper, then glued them all to several pieces of heavy watercolour painters sheets and hung it on the wall above the food platters (this is visible in the birthday video, posted below).
Curtis also bought green, white and black balloons with the intent of drawing ghast and creeper faces on the first two, and turning the last into spiders along with some black crate paper… but we never had time to complete them so the balloons just sort of bounced around the rooms instead. I'd also created a ghast piñata out of a small moving box, with little white crate paper tentacles hanging down… but ran into a snag when I realized we had nowhere in the entire house to hang it so that ended up going to waste as well. Boo. This probably would have gone a little more smoothly if it had been more than just me doing all the work. It's not that Curtis didn't want to, it's that his work schedule didn't permit it.

Xan's Minecraft cake was also home-made: it was a double-layer chocolate cake covered with a sheet of red fondant (which took for-fucking-ever to do. Jesus) and painted to look like a block of Minecraft TNT. It did not turn out even remotely like I planned it to, but he didn't care and still loved it so that was the important part. I did not even bother taking a picture, because I was so frustrated with it.
I originally bought a pack of sparklers so I could put seven of them atop the individual dynamite 'sticks', but Curtis had a better idea and managed to find this absolutely giant fireball sparkler thing and stuck it right in the middle of the pile of "wires" so it looked like a huge fuse on fire. It was a big hit.

Over the week prior to the party I'd crafted an entire set of Minecraft tools and weapons out of cardboard, painted them according to screencaps from the game, and laid them around for the kids to play with. I had a diamond sword, diamond axe, pick, hoe, shovel and a bow and arrow (which was also done as though it was made from diamond, even though Xan insisted this was not actually possible. I can blame Curtis for this as the bow was his job to finish). They lasted about two days before starting to bend, but the kids adored them.

This party was a lot - A LOT - of work. I felt like I worked on this for weeks, and my body was crying out for mercy well before I was done. And despite it all, I still fucked tons of shit up and didn't do half the things I wanted to. It felt frustrating and half-assed, and up until the morning of the party I was wallowing in my failure as a parent to provide even a mostly okay themed party for my child.
But then, while I was finishing up the paint on one of the last pieces of oversized Minecraft tools, Xan made his way over to the table and remarked, "Wow mommy… these are amazing. They look so real!" He paused, took in a long breath as though to whistle, and looked it up and down. "Wow," he said again, "You're so talented! I can't believe these are for me". I looked up at him and saw the genuine awe in his face, and that alone made everything worth it.

And so, though it comes a month late… happy 7th birthday to my baby boy. Who went from this absolutely precious kewpie doll of a baby:

To this psychopath in the making:

(We laughed so, so hard when we saw this proof. I don't know what these Lifetouch people think they're doing, but this is quite possibly the most hilariously horrible portrait I've ever seen. The only thing worse was the secondary pose where he sits with his thumbs sticking backwards into his belt loops, wincing as though he just realized he was about to shit himself).

Small Wonders Project: the little book of secrets

babyslime — Tue, 15 Oct 2013 22:20:38 GMT

I have always been enamoured by my mother's vast collection of artifacts and antiques. She has little caches of them stashed all over the place; between her home, my garage and the basement of my brother's house. Some pieces are nestled in tiny old cigar boxes, wrapped with newspaper and sealed in Ziploc bags; others are wrapped up all together with cloth, in little groups, just waiting to be re-discovered and explored like ancient bones buried in the ground.
This incredible collection of history runs the gamut from priceless pre-Columbian pottery, to worthless and gaudy 1920's costume jewelery, gorgeous depression-era beaded clutches, empty French perfume bottles, original paintings, demo tapes from now-famous bands, 200 year old books, a photocopy of my great-grandmother's driving license (as the first woman in California to receive one), trading beads and little bracelets bought by the roadside in Mexico. Her small wonders range from awe-inspiring to ridiculous and I love every single bit of them.

My brother never had much interest in the collection, but to me it was a dream. As a child I would spend hours and hours sitting in her bedroom with all the pieces laid out in front of me. I felt like I was walking through time: I could very literally delve into the past by exploring, touching and discovering all of these artifacts and little lost treasures… and that was something really and truly amazing to me. Every little crack in a marble or dog-eared page from an ancient book was another way to connect with the people that lived and died long before I ever existed.
Her books were some of my favourites. I spent months - maybe even years - looking through her book collection. Some were childhood favourites of hers, like the book, "So Long Ago" which read more as a child's introduction to evolutionary theory with it's incredibly detailed, annotated paintings of triassic scenes; to ancient palmistry books well over a hundred and fifty years old, or original printings of "Dick and Jane". I loved running my hands over the cloth-knit covers and smelling the musty, earthy scent of something so worn and beloved.

Each piece has it's own story, sometimes directly from my mother's life but more often than not they are tales passed down from her mother, her grandmother, and their family before them. Some of these pieces are absolutely ancient, like the gold hoop earrings I wear so frequently that were created by melting down the "family gold" that's been with us for several hundred years. Before my earrings it was my mother's wedding ring, before that a delicate bracelet, and before that they were gold fillings.
I absolutely loved hearing the stories, and I asked my mother to tell them to me over and over again. It didn't even matter if small details changed between the re-tellings, if they were even totally true to begin with or had evolved from family mythology over the generations that had passed them down… all I wanted was to hear and remember. I wanted to pass down the legacy of story-telling when it was my time, too. The art of telling was the most important part. Whether or not I could later fact-check each individual piece really wasn't the point: the mythology is and always will be the best part of having this kind of collection, it's what gives everything its meaning and depth.
So when I find the stones taken from the desert where my grandfather came across a genie in the desert who apparently saved his life, I cherish that as much as the wedding ring that my grandmother died wearing because she couldn't let go of her love for the man who abandoned her.

Some years back I had a vivid and terrible nightmare about my mother dying from a wasting disease. In the dream, I spent the last weeks of her life by her bedside, day and night I catalogued and recorded all of her treasures. We marked each one with numbers or codes and then wrote down all their stories, so that nothing would ever be lost to the void when she finally slipped away… and we'd always remember how much was attached to these things.
Though the nightmare left me shaken for weeks at the thought of losing my mother, it did gift me with the motivation to start dedicating her collection to memory somehow. I talked to her about it later, and together we decided the idea from the nightmare wasn't half-bad: we could start numbering each piece, perhaps with a label maker, or even small tags and string, and track them all in a way that allows me to create a corresponding database of stories, photos and even mythology. Even if we one day decide to part with some of the pieces, at least this way we know which ones have been in the family for generations and which could be sold or auctioned without feeling too much guilt.

We haven't officially started this project quite yet - what with all the fuss of moving and surgeries - but it's our goal to start by the end of this year. The first set will probably be some of the ancient books I have stored here at the house with me. Most of them have been boxed away since before Tempest was born; we've just never had the space nor luxury to unpack everything and go through it for displaying. With this newest move, we finally have that ability, and I've slowly been finding and setting aside the boxes and tubs that contain some of the older things.

I want to share this project online, not only as a permanent record but also because I know I can't be the only one that absolutely loves these kinds of things. There must be others out there like me who feel giddy at the idea of connecting with the past through personal stories, myths and tales passed down through family.

With that in mind, this entry will mark the first installment of this project, for now just titled, "Small Wonders".
But maybe I'll come up with something more clever later on.

One of my favourite caches of old books is nestled away in a pile of encyclopedias and nursing manuals from the turn of the century. My maternal grandmother was an army nurse and spent a lot of time in medical tents when she was younger. Her relationship with her mother, grandmother and the rest of that side of the family, were all absolutely terrible… and leaving home was probably the best and safest thing she could have possibly done when she came of age. In spite of that she desperately wanted to keep a connection to her family's past - largely because she was rather mysteriously cut off from so much of it - and it was because of her that we have most of this collection at all.
She somehow managed to find, and save, the old books from her mother, grandmother and great-grandmother. Some of them have little notations in the front, written by her, that remark on who it originally belonged to and what year it would have been used. Others remain unsullied, and contain only the marks from their original owners.

My favourite was always this one:

It's a scripture "question book" for children around the age of 7-10, so I'm told. My family in this era was largely from the deep south and into Texas, USA; it wasn't until my parents moved to Canada (my father with his family at 9, my mother on her own with my infant brother at around 2… which is a whole 'nother fascinating story) that we became Canadian. I was the first (and only, until my baby sister) Canadian-born member of my family.
According to the inside page this printing is from 1853, and originates in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

The opening page has the name "Martha Ellen Nugent" written in a child's hand. Nugent was the maiden name of my great grandmother's family. We have a photo album with family records dating back to the early 1800's, and photos of family from the mid-late 1800's; all of the earliest photos carry the name.

There are a few notations in the margins of the first pages; it is the same script, but a little more even and clear, from a hand not quite as young. The quotes do not appear to have anything to do with the content of the book, which is made up entirely of biblical questions and answers.

The notes on the first pages are these:

The first appears to say, "Love can't choose and love wonder/wander. Love can/can't go where it doesn't show".

The second has been much harder for me to figure out. This is my best guess based on other handwriting samples : "O that long [??] of lord and be what separates my love from me, that's what I dread. (UPDATE: eagle-eyed reader, stess, has provided an accurate reading! It says, "O that long line of land and sea that separates my love from me". Thank you, Stess!)
That last one always made me a bit sad.
If anyone has any better guesses, I'm very open to them. These are rather interesting things to be written in the front of this book.

I looked through this book a hundred times when I was younger, because it always felt like there was something delightfully mysterious about it. It was more than just it being a neat old textbook; it had been very deliberately put aside and saved, then unknowingly passed down until my grandmother came upon it carefully wrapped up in cloths, presumably hidden away into the bottom of an old trunk or box. It was the only schoolbook that was ever saved like this, and considering that no one in the family was religious in such a way that explains valuing a child's scripture book this closely, it always seemed a tad strange. The references to love and loss in the beginning made me think that the book, or the school it came from, had some special significance to Martha that she kept secret.

Adding to the mystery, there are tiny little clippings from papers or magazines that are carefully tucked in-between the pages of the book. Every one of them has to do with love or freedom - while some are a tad more obscure than others, that's definitely the common theme.

Those things alone make this a particularly interesting and kinda mysterious thing to find, but there's more than that: this book has a secret that took over 150 years to find. After all the times I'd looked through this book, all times my mother and even her mother looked through it, no one ever discovered this secret until the day I was showing it to a friend and accidentally dropped it on the ground.

The inside of the back cover looks like this,

Cotton or linen cloth that has been clumsily bound with old, frayed strings. They look far too delicate to touch or pull at, so it never occurred to me to look inside them.
After I dropped the book on the ground, the back cover flipped open and revealed a hidden note tucked beneath the cloth.

The note is carefully folded and amazingly well-preserved; only the edges are slightly frayed. The paper isn't even that discoloured… if it had been found by anyone before me, it certainly hadn't been shared. Once again it is the same script, though it matured significantly from the notes written in the cover pages. This looks more like the hand of a young woman than a girl.

The note it is dated March the 15th, 1865. Not that long before Martha was given in an arranged marriage, as was not that uncommon at the time.

I cannot read the first two words, but the rest is a poem...

"'Lo there
what cheeks
can half so
soft appear
what rose
so lovely be
what dimpled
smiled is half
so dear as
that which
smiles on me.

I love the and will all the days of my life.
But I don't think you love me."

The other side:

"Remember well
and bear in mind
a true friend is
hard to find
but when you
find one good
and true change
not the old
to the new
blue is true

from admired,
to …
true love,
write soon
to …

good bye, love"

The name has been deliberately rubbed away, presumably for as long as the note has been saved.

To say I had chills upon finding and reading this is a colossal understatement.
It doesn't exactly sound like the kind of thing you would write to the man you were betrothed and married to soon after… let alone something you felt needed to be hidden inside the cloth of a childhood book, and carried with you for years disguised as nothing more than a favourite old text. And it makes all of those little references to love that she's hidden throughout the book all the more interesting. I imagine I'll never know the full story, though I wish I could.

This is why I love having all these little treasures; there's often so much more to them than meets the eye.

babyslime — Fri, 11 Oct 2013 07:18:13 GMT

This has to be the most hilariously unlucky move attempt ever. I mean, at this point I've gone far beyond the crying and shaking stage and am right into the hysterical laughter stage. Every one more thing wrong was like another pie in the face.
Whenever I'm tempted to ask how my karma got so bad to deserve all this, I try to spin it to, "This is the universe letting me know that our time there will be so great and amazing that we have to pay in advance for this unfair amount of good luck and joy". Sometimes that works, but most of the time it sounds like complete bullshit.

The 30th was the first day of big moving, while the next day (the first) was reserved for final cleaning. We never leave a house dirty, and our motto has always been to aim to leave a place better than we found it (within reason, I mean we're not going to repaint the entire place to fix every slight chip or something) and over the time we've lived here we've discovered quite a few things that were never done prior to us moving in… like cleaning under the fridge, or washing the drapes; I always thought they were brown, but it turns out they are beige.

Horrible mishap #1: We got the keys to the new place a few days prior to the 30th and were given permission to start moving stuff in whenever we wanted, so Curtis started doing drops of boxes in effort to clear some space in our (old) house for more cleaning duty and stacking boxes.
At the end of his second drop, he was coming down the stairs and slipped, rotating his ankle 90 degrees and putting all his weight on it. He said the pops he heard were so loud it was echoing off the walls. He didn't admit this at the time, but later told me that he was genuinely frightened that he would not be able to make it home. Never in his life has he hurt himself that badly.
He sat against the wall for a good 15 minutes trying to wait for the pain to subside (it didn't) before limping back to the car and making his way home. By the time he got back there was a lump on the side of his foot bigger than a baseball and the pain was so bad he couldn't bear weight on the foot at all. I forced him to lay down and alternate ice and heat every 20 minutes until we both succumbed to exhaustion. Just before I fell asleep I had him swear up and down he'd go to the clinic the next morning.

He did end up going, although very reluctantly, and the verdict was that it's very badly sprained and he has a torn ligament, but at least it's not broken so he can probably avoid crutches. His foot looked so bad by the next day - oh my god - half of it was black and the other half stained red like someone coloured on his skin with Sharpie markers. The only other time I've seen bruising that bad was when my mom got in a (not very bad) accident and her car's airbag deployed and absolutely beat the ever-loving shit out of her face and breast.
It was rather terrifying to look at. Even three of his toes turned black.
The doctor told him he'd have to take time off work and Curtis replied that time off was not an option in our universe; so instead he was given a buttload of pills, a tensor bandage and told to ice it 4x a day and do as little with it as he can. Naturally this advice was immediately thrown aside and he went back out to do more box drops. FUCKING CURTIS, GODDAMMIT.

Over the next few days it was a ridiculous tug-o-war between the two of us to convince the other to lay down and rest, or not push ourselves too hard. With Curtis half-incapacitated, and my back doing so bad that I could barely move 70% of the time, it was a genuine miracle the house was even half-way done.

I swear to god, Curtis was not this stubborn when I met him. It used to take hours just to convince him a slight cough was not reason enough to curl up and die. When I jokingly asked him, "Where did you learn to be this way?"
He responded dramatically, "You, alright? I learned it from watching you!"
Oh, fuck you Curtis.

His entire "weekend" off work was spent madly packing, cleaning, and taking alternating shifts taking care of the children, having short breaks, and doing endless amounts of work. It made it feel like we had no time off at all - probably because we didn't - so by the end we were both really on edge. Moving tends to put an incredible strain on relationships anyway, but we also hadn't managed to have sex in like two weeks due to my mouth surgery plus all of this shit, so that really didn't help. These days two weeks is practically two years for us, so the sexual frustration levels were quickly skyrocketing.
On one of the final days I felt like I did nothing but scream at my kids for 20 continuous hours. I felt so bad about it that I tried to make it up to them the next day by allowing roughly 8 hours of screen time while I worked. I spent most of this time so stressed out I could barely hold my shit together. Even going to bed at night was impossible without a constant stream of anxiety nightmares. The nightmares don't even make sense, either. I mean it was all weird, random shit like not being able to find my way through somebody's basement. I found another wall, cue life-ending panic attack and wake up drenched in sweat!

Horrible mishap #2: My dad was helping to front our security deposit for the new place until we sorted out what was happening with the old one (hint: more court!), and we had originally planned on having the rest of it dropped off to the property manager on the last Friday before move-in day. When I called him to check on that, he reminded me that he was in Kelowna all week and won't be back until Monday (the first). Which is also when the trailer is reserved for (his vehicle has a hitch and ours doesn't, so he offered to rent the trailer instead since he can actually pull it).
On top of that, Curtis just had to fire someone at work for being a huge douchebag (seriously what kind of asshole tells his superiors that if he isn't given a requested day off during one of the busiest times, that he'll just "not show up"?), which means he has to pull double shifts two days in a row to cover for the loss. Both of those days were OUR MOVING DAYS, gifting us with Horrible Mishap #3.

So all those wonderful schedules we had flawlessly set up weeks in advance to ensure that moving day was as low stress as possible? Yeah, they're all gone now. Now it was just little disabled me, all by myself, doing everything … somehow… until Curtis got home at anywhere from 6-9pm.

This was a pretty panic-inducing thing, and I was absolutely freaking the fuck out until one of my closest friends saved the day by offering to help me out up until Curtis got off work. She single-handedly saved the move from being my worst nightmare, and instead downgraded it to "a catastrophe" instead. This was a significant improvement.
Of course, as soon as she arrived, the worst storm of the year started and our windshield wipers don't work properly (Horrible Mishap #4) so we did most of the back-and-forth drops while fearing for our lives. But at least the kids were all being looked after during this so their presence wasn't adding to that stress.

(Mishaps #5 through #9) Z had obviously picked up on all the stress and was behaving like she was on drugs. The last night of the move she started that cyclic toddler mess-making thing where they create some horrific mess and while you're cleaning that up they start in on another one. Repeat, repeat, repeat. And unless you're fortunate enough to have someone to take them out of the house for you, this continues until you finally lose our goddamn mind. We call this the perpetual mess machine, and it is a skill unique to 2 year olds.
The first plague began as the Elders and Z were all sitting on the couch zoning out to Digimon or something. I asked Tempest to be in charge of watching the baby for two minutes while I walked into the other room to put a load of laundry in the washing machine. I was gone literally 120 seconds. I did nothing but walk in, spin a dial, dump two armfuls of clothes in the machine, and then walk back.
As I returned to the kitchen I was immediately hit with a wall of carpet cleaner smell. As in the expensive carpet cleaner soap that came with our carpet shampoo machine rental. When I rounded the corner into the living room I saw Zephyra standing naked (she was clothed when I walked away two minutes earlier) with a nearly-empty bottle of carpet cleaner in her hands. The rest was spread out in a big sudsy pool stretching from the kitchen, outward through the living room. ALL OF IT. Wall to fucking wall.
And where were the elders who were supposed to be helping out? Nowhere to be found, of course.
Apparently they saw a dog walk by - I'm not even kidding - and they leapt off the couch and ran outside to ask the owner if they could pet it. At the very least they locked the door behind them, believing that to be the most responsible solution.

I briefly chased Z around the incredibly slippery room (thank god it was sealed hardwood) and after another minute finally managed to wrest the bottle from her hands. She immediately flopped onto the floor in a tearful heap, and continued to lay there with her head in her hands for 15 minutes, screaming and moaning in anguish while I carefully sponged up as much of the cleaner as possible and squeezed it back into the bottle. I saved about half of it. It took 35 minutes.

The second plague of toddler destruction came in the form of kafir lime leaves. I don't even know how she got ahold of these things. We have two bags of them leftover from god knows what and they were already packed away in a box that remained taped shut until after we moved in and unpacked the kitchen, but SOMEHOW she got both bags out of it. She's like a fucking messy Houdini.
I was cleaning the kitchen cabinets when I heard a strange crunching noise. I looked up and saw a small trail of dried leaves that Xan was very purposefully stepping on, delicately moving from one to the next, crushing each into smithereens all over the floor. I got up to yell at him about it, believing that he'd dragged them in from the yard, but as I stepped over the baby gate I realized that the leaves extended far beyond the little row Xan had walked over. They were spread all over the couch, the floor in front of the couch, and were scattered throughout most of the living room. There were hundreds of them. I don't even understand how that many fit into the little freezer bags they'd been stored in!
I was completely dumbfounded.

I made Xan clean up most of it due to his deliberate crunching, and held the baby aside while he finished. I put her down briefly so I could help sweep the remaining debris into a dust pan, and once I was finished I walked back into the kitchen to throw it away and saw that baby had managed to climb up onto the counter, into the cupboard and grab a tin of cocoa powder. In the time it took me to sweep up the lime leaves into a dust bin she had spread cocoa powder from wall to wall in the kitchen. Everything was brown: her body, the floor, the cupboards, the counters, the walls… EVERYTHING.
I picked up the baby and threw her in the bath to rinse the cocoa out of her hair, then let her go briefly to sit in the mostly empty guest bedroom with Tempest while I cleaned up the cocoa.
When I went to get her in there, I realized Tempest had gone into another room some time before, and left behind the second coming of kafir lime leaves. It seemed as though she'd stashed half a bag in there somewhere between her first two adventures, and now that one was spread and crushed all over the room. Wall to wall.
So I put her back in the living room with the Elders, locked all adjoining doors, secured the baby gate to the kitchen and swept up that room.
By the time I dumped the bin out, I could already hear Tempest's, "Uh-oh… Mommy?"

One litre of water all over the living room floor, picking up the remnants of the lime leaves and any other food particles I may have missed. Wall to wall in the living room. She had climbed a bookshelf to get ahold of my water bottle and learned how to unscrew the top.

By the end of that run I was actually crying.
All of that took place within 15 minutes.

But it wasn't just me that had a horrible time. Horrible Mishap #10 was when Curtis got out of work and went to retrieve his bike, finding that not only had the handlebars been stolen, but in the process the thief had cut or ripped off every single wire and line.
… why handlebars?

The following morning all the remaining lights in the kitchen burnt out (not quite horrible, but still counts as Mishap #11), and they're this weird 'lifetime warranty' kind that requires a special tool to get out of their socket (which crazy/current landlady has). So there's that. We did the last remnants of packing and cleaning (all of which were centred in the kitchen) in near darkness.

By the time we reached the end of the first move night (the 30th) I was so happy to be done with the worst of it that I didn't care about anything else anymore. I felt numbed to any other disasters, and assured myself that nothing else could possibly get to me at this point. I've reached the absolute pinnacle of anxiety of bullshit.
And of course, now that I've said that… Mishap #12.
My father helped with the last load of boxes and it was late enough that Curtis and him just started piling them haphazardly around the living room to be dealt with later. All we wanted was to stop and go to bed. One of the boxes he left lying around held all of our cleaning supplies, including a bottle of Clorox bleach. I didn't see him bring this one in, and did not think to remind him to put it in a closet somewhere and not within the baby's reach.
Within five minutes of his unloading the last few boxes, Tempest remarked, "Why does it smell like a pool?" and before I could say, "Whaa?" the baby came running up to me going, "Yucky!".
It didn't take long for me to put two and two together and promptly start freaking the fuck out, believing that she had been drinking the bleach. I scrambled through the house looking for the evidence to back this up before I went too far off the deep end, and eventually came upon the box of cleaning supplies that my father had put on the floor next to a hall closet. The bleach was the only thing removed from the box, and the top was off. I could smell it, but couldn't see anywhere it had been spilled. Z wandered over and I meticulously checked her clothes, hair, hands and smelled her breath. She had no bleach or liquid spills on her body, none on her clothes (if she'd drank some she would have spit or dribbled it onto her front, as she drools very heavily even at this age, likely due in part to her tongue tie). I saw no evidence that she'd ingested any. Her hands smelled very faintly of it, so I ran her into the kitchen and scrubbed them off just in case. I stripped her and double-checked everything: clothes, breath, skin… and still found no evidence she'd even touched the stuff. But the area still smelled very strongly of chlorine.
I told Tempest to take Z to the playroom and went back over to the spot the bleach was sitting, knelt down and carefully inspected the carpet. My knee started feeling hot, and then started feeling like it was burning. I rose up and saw that my jeans now had a patch over the knee that was quickly lightning… there was a puddle of bleach on the carpet. THE BRAND NEW FUCKING CARPET IN THE BRAND NEW PLACE. The carpet that the manager stressed had only just been put in last week. Cue epic freak out.

I grabbed the first absorbent thing I could see that wasn't clothes - a large piece of fleecy fabric from my sewing supplies - threw it down and just started scrubbing and blotting the shit out of the carpet. I grabbed hot water and dish soap and poured it on, sponged, blotted, scrubbed and prayed my heart out. Half-way through this my knee was burning and itching like hell and I remembered that it still had bleach all over it from kneeling in the spill. I stripped off my pants, grabbed a disposable baby wipe to clean off my knee and kept working. The baby wipe didn't really do anything… the burn had already set in, and it was really starting to hurt a lot. But that didn't matter because omfg bleach spill on the brand new carpet!
I worked at this for a good ten minutes before it occurred to me that I should have grabbed gloves out of the cleaning supply box before I started. My fingers had now joined my knee in the itchy-burny-chemical-spill party on my skin (mishap lucky #13!). They were bright red, puffy and peeling. The carpet looked like it was fine now and the "pool" smell had all but disappeared, so I put everything away and ran into the kitchen to deal with my burned hands.
It was around this point that my dad and Curtis returned from the last drop to find me standing in the kitchen half-naked, burned to shit, crying and surrounded by wadded up baby wipes, towels and piles of bleached fabric scraps. They had been gone about 11 minutes.

After everything that had gone horribly wrong over that move, dad just sort of stood there taking it in for a second, then pumped his fists angrily in the air and jokingly yelled, "Stop fucking up!". We laughed, albeit weakly, and he gave me a big hug before he left for the night.

My fingers suffered a pretty bad chemical burn; it seems to have taken off a good section of my fingerprints. A few days later all the cracks opened up and created terribly painful sores. It's been almost a week and a half since it happened, and they still haven't recovered. The worst part is that due to the burning and peeling on my fingers, none of my touch-sensitive devices (tablet, phone, wii, etc) will pick up my fingers and I can't use them properly. Trying to text Curtis is incredibly frustrating. I can't feel a goddamn thing when I touch stuff either.

On the first Curtis wasn't going into work until around 2pm so we spent the entire morning cleaning the old place top to bottom. My dad came over to help out so we could get things done a little faster; he and Curtis worked on the more physically taxing things (like the fridge and underneath the appliances) while I went room to room doing walls, baseboards, windows, sills, eves and sweeping.
Our amazing friends James and Adena came in half-way through the day to bring us coffee and a sandwich bar, just completely out of the blue, which was a ray of sunshine we desperately needed to have after all this stress. They even stayed a bit and helped out with some of the cleaning.
After Curtis left it was down to just dad and I, and we worked without cease until almost 6pm. My sister was watching Z until around 3 (following that she had to be in the house with us, which was a trial and a half) and my mom picked up the Elders from school and kept them with her until it was time to go.

Originally we'd planned on having the 'move out inspection' that afternoon, but crazy/old landlady had let us know that her schedule was really rough that day so if we needed an extra night we could just give her a call and push it to the 2nd instead. The only thing we had left to do was the oven, and the cleaner works best if left overnight, so I gave her a call and let her know that it was up to her to decide what was easiest: do it now and check on the oven tomorrow, or wait until tomorrow when her schedule was better and do the inspection then. She was kind and polite on the phone and admitted that the 2nd was a lot easier on her, so we rescheduled for the next afternoon, packed up all our cleaning supplies and went home.

I asked my dad to be present during her inspection, because I had a feeling her rather unnaturally kind demeanour was going to change as soon as this began. Turns out that was a good idea, because as soon as we entered the house she started flipping the fuck out.
That house looked damn beautiful, especially considering a family of 5 was living in it for over six years, and she complained about fucking everything. The fact that her cheap ass particle-board cabinet in the bathroom was scuffed, the fact that the mysterious towel rack she never bought had not been magically installed sometime during our time living there, the fact that there was a cobweb in the vaulted ceiling upstairs, the fact that the kitchen lights had burned out the day before…
My dad stopped her half-way through one of her rants and asked that she calm down and speak politely because there was no need to freak the fuck out. She immediately screamed at him, "Stop harassing me! You can just LEAVE!"
He quietly said he would not leave, because he had every right to be there given that I had requested him as a witness.
The best part was when she screamed about the ancient heater in Xan's room having a broken cover, and claimed it would cost $350 to fix. When dad heard this he asked her to clarify, and she lowered it to $100 or $150. Dad pointed out that those heaters aren't even made anymore, it's that old, and a replacement costs roughly $35. She spun around and again told him to get out and stop harassing her. He calmly said that he wasn't harassing her, and explained, "This is literally my job. I'm a contractor. I know how much these things cost. It's about $35 and takes maybe ten minutes to install; no special skill needed."
She rambled for the next three minutes about how difficult and costly it was to shut off the breaker, connect a wire, and how no contractor in his right mind would charge her for ten minutes of time. He was genuinely confused: anyone can do that, really it's not hard, but conceded that if she needed someone to install it they'd probably charge her for a half hour… but that's still nowhere near $150-$350 worth of work. She started to freak at him again, asking him to leave, at which point he said again that he had every right to remain and told her flat out that the heating unit is so old and in such bad shape that she should be ashamed of herself for renting a unit to a family with such terrible and dangerous electrical work inside rooms that could be occupied by children.

That made me feel warm and happy inside. I love my dad.

Once she realized that she couldn't intimidate him, or continue to knowingly lie to me about costs, she became noticeably flustered and upset. She wandered through the rest of the house mumbling to herself about damage, but did not actually talk to us directly. At the end she once again said that we were responsible for an issue with lost rent from my mother's tenancy 4-5 years ago (spoiler: we're not, we've checked on this) and offered to return to us a "generous" amount of about 30% of our deposit. I told her I'd like her to send me an itemized list of the damage and the costs by email so that I could look it over and discuss it with Curtis. She agreed to that, and we parted.
Dad walked me to the car and told me that if we can up it to 50% then we should just walk away and be done with her. I agreed; she's fucking crazy but there's a limit to how much I can take. He asked me to forward the email to him once we got it so he can check the prices she's quoting.

It took her seven days to get the email out… and lord, it's a riot. She has in there things like "cobwebs" listed under damage, and estimates 5 hours of cleaning time to remove them at $30/hr.
And 'garbage left by driveway' (stuff for free cycle that was gone in less than 24 hours), and she lists dumping and hauling fees at over $50… even though the area's dump is 6 blocks away, is free to use, and most importantly she didn't actually do this.
She also charges us for two days' rent in October, even though we had moved out on the 30th of September and no one and no thing occupied the unit during this time. She's charging us for two days of rent because we rescheduled the inspection for the 2nd. This is against the terms of the RTA in about six different ways. For one she's supposed to provide us with two possible times/dates for a moving out inspection and if neither of them work we have to make 'every effort' to find one that fits both our schedules. She's not allowed to charge rent money for that.
That also isn't considered "damage" and wouldn't be a part of the damage deposit - it would be claimed separately.
At the end of the ridiculous list (the one valid thing she had on there was that we'd forgotten to clean one of the window tracks. Which takes about 15 minutes - 5 of actual scrubbing and 10 of leaving a bleach spray on it to sit. She has it listed as 3+ hours of work at $50/hr) she claims that the actual damage is far more than 5k, but she's still going to "Generously offer" to return the 30% of our deposit.

Now, if I was a landlord and I had tenants that genuinely did thousands of dollars of damage to a unit… I would not be offering to generously return ANY of their deposit. Because I'd have easy proof that they did a lot of fucking damage to it. Thousands of damage is pretty evident, man. That is not a small number. I seriously do not get her logic.

So, yeah, back to court we go. Everyone is saying this is another easy win, not only because of the easy win last time and the mountains of evidence we have against her, but because she has no moving in inspection, no images of the unit prior to this, and the only real claims she has against us are on things that are so old they should have been replaced many years ago. For instance, according to the tenancy laws we're not responsible for damage/replacement costs of 10+ year old carpets and 15+ year old baseboards. Just like how we're not responsible for chips in paint when we've lived there longer than 4 years - all of those things are considered wear and tear due to how things naturally degrade over time and heavy use.
I don't want to do court again, but this is fucking stupid.

BUT…

At least now we're through the worst of it: we're out of the house, we're (mostly) away from her, and we're loving this new place. As of this posting we've been here a week and a half and love it so damn much. The space, the location (the driving to school every day sucks but it's a small price to pay for everything else), the community and everything.
It's so nice to have a property manager that actually cares about the community and the homes and does everything by the book. When we let her know that one of the kitchen drawer gliders is broken, she got back to us within an hour to say that she'd send out a note for it to be fixed. By the following morning we got a message in our mailslot saying that someone was coming no later than three days to fix it. Fucking amazing.

There are bunnies EVERYWHERE. Brown bunnies, white bunnies, grey bunnies, black bunnies, baby bunnies! The kids in the community are always out there chasing them with intent to catch one (without success, I might add), and the other day I saw what looked like 3 or 4 possibly stoned teenagers running after a pair of them with a laundry basket. They were also not successful. They're huge pests, apparently, and there's a trap and release program going on… but the grass and flowers in this area are so appetizing that none of the bunnies want to go after the fruits and veggies they put in the live traps.
Last week there was a teeny tiny brown baby bunny hiding under our stroller outside the front door. It was no bigger than the palm of my hand. Swoon.

We have a huge, deep soaker tub! I hate baths, but if I needed to take one for sore muscles I can submerge to my neck without issue. It's also deep enough that when I'm giving the kids a bath I only need to fill it up around 1/3 of the way and that means the chance of splash tsunamis is much better. And thank god for that. We had a bath night this evening for Xan and Zephyra and there was like… no mess to clean up afterward.

The kids have already met some friends in this area and are actually willing to go outside and play. I mean, getting Xan moving is still a trial because he's Xan, but I can generally convince them to spend time out of the house without too much effort because there are ACTUAL CHILDREN THEIR AGE to play with.

This one isn't about the house but I wanted to include it anyway.
For Xan's birthday he wanted a loft bed, since him and Tempest separated rooms some time ago and she has a queen-sized futon that she sleeps on nowadays. Dad came by this last weekend and modified the old bunk bed he built them into a loft bed for Xan, complete with secret fort underneath (helped by the set of curtains dad's partner generously donated to the cause). Shortly before this I unpacked a particularly old set of boxes that probably haven't been touched since the last time we moved, and I found these weird little cord light thingies that don't seem to serve any real purpose but would look awesome in his fort. When dad was done I took them out and wrapped them around the bottom bunk frame that was bolted to the side for support, and plugged them in. It lights up the whole area and looks pretty kick ass.
Then we put a big stack of comic books including the brand new Adventure Time graphic novels (gifts from James and Adena).

And it was amazing.

(I don't have any proper camera photos of it so these will have to do for now until his room is more 'set up').

Outside

Inside

Curtis and I spent the first week here working non-stop to get things unpacked and organized as fast as we can so we don't end up in a perpetual state of half-moved. I hate that shit; it makes me feel like we live in squalor.
Most importantly, we've been able to sneak off into the rec room - a whole two floors down from the kids' bedrooms - and have five consecutive nights of hot, loud, incredibly amazing kinky sex! This has successfully ebbed some of that horrible amount of tension we were carrying with us through the disastrous move. Well, kinda… I'm thinking we may need another five more days of sex before it's really gone. At least.

Although in the midst of the first attempt at crazy kinky sex, Tempest was too excited to sleep (first night in the house and all) and kept coming down to bother us about random shit.
Where's my water?
My hot water bottle is cold, will you fill it up?
What time do I wake up tomorrow?
How long will it take to drive to school from here?
Where's that book I wanted to read?
My leg has a cramp, will you rub it?
Why aren't you wearing pants?
What are you doing down in the Playmobil room at midnight?

JESUS TEMPEST WE ARE TRYING TO FUCK DOWN HERE, PLEASE GO THE HELL BACK TO BED.

I keep forgetting to do this up but I finally had some time last night to put it together. I talked a bit about my mother undergoing gastric surgery in July, and she said she'd be totally okay with sharing her pictures online in hopes it might inspire others… particularly because she's over 60 and facing a number of health problems and a major disability, so she's not exactly going to pick up marathon running even at the end of a miraculously successful program.

Her starting weight was around 260 or so, and as of two weeks ago she's about 211. She swears she sees almost no difference in her stomach, which is what she's most self-conscious about (and it's swelling is largely due to liver problems) but I see a HUGE difference already. Not just in appearance but also in the way she carries herself and walks. She uses a mobility scooter 95% of the time, but can walk short distances (ie. around her house), this isn't due to her weight but is due to her being disabled. I've come to recognize the way she sort of sways when she walks and I'm so used to it that I can recognize her from a long distance just by her movement. On the days we were moving she watched the kids for us and dropped them off later on, so she got off her scooter to walk inside and I did a double-take because my brain totally didn't clue in that it was her: her walk has totally changed. Once again, she hasn't noticed this, but even Curtis commented on it. She said she experiences a small reduction in pain and has noticed that she can walk further, and a little faster, than she normally is limited to. Those are both hugely amazing things that no one had a lot of hope for change given the severity of her disability and pain levels; so this is super awesome.
She's still fighting with getting accustomed to eating and not triggering nausea or vomiting but at least she's only experienced one 'sugar dump' since the surgery (one was more than enough).
She's already made huge progress, even if she doesn't think so.

She doesn't look particularly thrilled in these photos because she hates having her picture taken, or seeing her pictures (she's happy to share them with my readers; she just doesn't want them up on her wall) and I continually bug her to stop "dressing fat" (Curtis had this problem as he lost weight as well), but she's pretty insistent that this will not change until she's "small enough" to warrant caring. Mom's level of internalized fat hate is pretty overwhelming, and every time I come over I try to talk to her about it a little more, and how being fat is not horrible or bad or always unhealthy or gross or any of the things that I often hear her say. I mean even if she's not receptive now, I don't want that to be the primary message my kids are getting from her about this part of her life… because that's not what it's about. For her it's about her health and well-being because she has a specific set of problems that a reduction in weight can significantly help ease, and she's in a situation where exercise and diet can only go so far due to those problems, but that doesn't mean that fat is a bad word or that being fat makes you unhealthy and bad.
It makes me really sad to hear her talk like that about herself, because she's my mom: she's always been beautiful to me.

Zisms of the Day:
Generally when Zephyra has a poop she'll come up to me and say, "I stinky!", prompting me to take her up for a change. So she came up to me in the afternoon going, "Stinky! I stinky!" doing a bow-legged walk for emphasis.
"Are you stinky?" I asked her. She nodded and took my hand, so I led her upstairs and lay her down on the bed and got all the changing supplies. When I took off her diaper I found that not only was it clean, but it was also completely dry. The little turd punk'd me.
"You're not stinky!" I said.
She pointed at me and squealed in hysterical laughter, "HAHA MOMMY! I FART!" Then, before I could react, she jumped off the bed and ran away down the hall completely naked yelling, "FART FART FARRRRRRRT!".

Xanisms of the Day:
#1:
Xan: “You’re the worst parents I’ve ever had!”
Me: “Who were the best?”
Xan: “Well. But. No. You’re the worst I’ve ever SEEN!”
Me: “Have you seen lots?”
Xan: “I JUST HATE YOU, OKAY?” *slams door*

#2:
Xan was mad about the fact that our computer monitor is on the fritz and he can't play games while Tempest is playing on the TV, so I told him he could play games on my iPhone for a bit. When he found it, the last thing I was doing on it was still open, which was a text conversation between Curtis and I from the night before. He thought this meant Curtis had been sending me messages that I'd missed, so he took it upon himself to read it and relay the information to me.
He came running back into the room holding out my phone, saying, "Hey mommy I think daddy's trying to text you!"
"Oh no that's just from last niii…." I'm suddenly hit with the knowledge of what's up on the screen just as Xan interrupted me to ask about it.
"Hey mom, what does 'horny' mean?"

I briefly considered lying and answering, "When you really really want to spend time with someone" but I just know that's going to result in a phone call from school about how Xan told an entire classroom that he was horny for his best friend. Because that's completely something he'd do.

Links of the Day
Self-portrait of the artist giving birth - NSFW for nudity and blood. This short video explains the motivations of artist Ana Alvarez-Errecalde when she created a series of self-portraits of herself immediately following a (unassisted from what I can gather) homebirth of her child. Bloody, soft, still attached and glowing in happiness… they are beautiful and honest.
Why ending the mommy wars is misguided and dangerous - Every time I see another "we're on board with stopping mommy wars" story it makes me feel pissy, and this article beautifully outlines why. Assholes are assholes no matter what; that's not a "mommy" problem. And the idea of stopping all conversation and education about parenting issues or controversial topics? Not a smart one. By doing that we strip parents of their right to choose, and more importantly their right to make informed choices.That's letting the terrorists win, guys. And by terrorists I mean the corporations that give no shits about you or your kid (and just want to manipulate you into brand loyalty), the patriarchy, and social/class barriers that force us into corners where we have no choices at all. Framing all of that as some sort of social problem between catty mothers is both inaccurate and stupid.
"Die like a man": The toxic masculinity of Breaking Bad - SPOILER ALERT! Don't worry, the title isn't a spoiler - the whole point of the series is Walt dealing with the risk of death from cancer and how his ego, masculinity, etc wraps into that fear and his subsequent transformation and domination of those around him through that. How and when he (or others) 'die like men' is a theme (and saying) that is frequently used within the series. This article is a truly fascinating look (and critique) of those ideas and how they are woven through the show.
Computer teaches itself English so it can play Civilization V - This is amazing and also really kind of scary. Computers learn how to read instructions manuals and apply them to video games, skyrocketing their success in winning from 46% to 79%. This means that they have to understand the meaning of words and learn how to apply them to experiences within the game, as the instructions aren't "how to win" but rather "tips and suggestions". The article explains it more in depth, really it's amazing.
NICU program that gives parents charge of baby's care reduces stress - This is such an amazing program, and an idea so painfully obvious to many NICU veterans. I hope this goes nationwide soon.
"There was a 25 per cent improvement in weight gain of the babies who were looked after by the parents. Breastfeeding rates doubled from 40-something per cent to over 80 per cent. Infection rates fell from 11 per cent in the nurse group to zero in the parent group. Treatment errors dropped by 25 per cent. Parental satisfaction went up, parental stress went down."

babyslime — Wed, 25 Sep 2013 01:38:09 GMT

So it turns out we're moving out of here by the 1st. That's about 7 days. A week is both an agonizingly long time, and seriously not enough time at all. Both of these things are entirely the fault of Curtis' work schedule, as usual, because it means that 90% of the packing and cleaning needs to be done either by myself or during the few hours a day that Curtis is home (which is almost none).
We ended up getting the really lovely, large townhouse within the big family community - the one we'd applied for a few months ago - but it was a bit of a weird set-up to getting it that led to it and the whole thing left us feeling a little confused and really rushed. In the end it's alright because this place is really awesome and the move isn't that far, so even if we're not completely, perfectly, packed up by the 1st we can always just throw the 'hanging around' shit in bags and boxes and drive it the 8 minutes over to the new place. That's the wonderful thing about in-town moving, you don't have to pack every last crumb up and hope it all fits because that's the one and only chance you have to make it work. I swear to God I will never, ever move across a province or country or anything like that ever again. I fucking swear. At least, not without many thousands of dollars to spend on a moving company who can do all the hard work for me.

So anyway, the good parts: this community of townhomes has about 100 or more families, mostly with school-aged kids. This is something I'm really looking forward to, because it means I can kick the kids outside and off of screen time and they can actually make other friends their own ages and have lots of space to run around and play with them. They have often complained about the lack of other "their age" kids on this block, as there's really only a few. Kiddy-corner to us is a family with two little boys, but they're about 4 and 5 and too young for the Elders to really enjoy playing with. At the very end of the road is a girl and her little brother, roughly the same age as the Elders, but they out-class us by about five million dollars and Tempest is at the point in her life where that's becoming an issue… Finally, next door are two girls who are 1 and 3, which means they're way too young for the Elders to want to spend much time with them apart from using them for some bounce time (they have a large trampoline in their backyard). Tempest seemed to legitimately enjoy playing with the girls every so often, and that was okay for a while, up until the point when my kids had this sort of epic hyperactive insanity freak-out right outside our front door where they were screaming at the top of their lungs in the most humiliating, upsetting way… and the father of the girls walked out of his back door and just stood there watching us as I helplessly yelled at them to act more appropriately. All the while he's just glaring menacingly and crossing his arms and shaking his head like we we're (or I am) the scum of the fucking earth. Tempest has not been over to play since that incident. So there's that.

… All the more reason why it'd be nice to be one of 100 families, with lots of varieties of kids, who come in all shapes and sizes and levels of loudness that neighbours who have no children over the age of 3 won't judge to be inappropriate when they have of their mandatory weekly weird freak-outs.
Coincidentally, this is also why it's hard to be friends with people who have only one child under the age of 3: it's really just impossible to relate to them.

Anyway.
In this new community, a single property manager oversees everyone, but she reports to the larger management company that apparently runs a number of these town home communities… or something. I'm not really sure how it all works, but I do know that when you give the property manager lady the application she faxes it up to the higher-ups and they're the ones that approve it - she really doesn't get much of a say, if any at all. Once she gets notice of approval or denial, she calls the applicant and lets them know the answer.
So after we put in our (first) application in the end of June or whenever that was, we waited what we felt was a bit far past the cursory waiting time and called her back (roughly two weeks, adding an extra week for introvert paranoia) to check in on the status. All we ever heard was that it was either "processing", or that it would be "checked on", so we assumed that this shit just takes time. But after another few weeks of silence I was beginning to freak the fuck out, and my anxious paranoia was starting to creep in and making me believe that we'd been rejected because of something crazy that current/crazy landlady had said during the reference check and they just didn't want to tell us. Though, when I thought about that logically I know it didn't make any sense: given the size and history of the community, it would be completely expected that they'd dealt with rejecting much, MUCH worse applicants than a large family with a weirdo landlord… it wouldn't be that big a deal to just tell us we were denied, right? I consoled my fears by saying it was just my paranoia talking. It's not that hard to say, "Sorry you've been denied". I continued to tell myself it was just the normal processing time.
Meanwhile, we were crawling through housing ads and setting up a lot of viewings, but everything we found was either way too far away or would be a significant downsize for our family and end up being more trouble than its worth.

Still not hearing anything, still pouring over housing ads, we were now in the first week of September - we found an ad that looked alright and set up a viewing for a house literally three blocks from us. It seemed to be a pretty good deal: the price was right (a $150 savings from our current rent), it allowed pets, was right in-between the kids' schools… but it was a third smaller than this place. There were three bedrooms (we have four in this place), only one floor and everything was considerably tighter. We could get into it by October 15th and maybe even save some money (though, in retrospect, this was probably not true as the place had oil heat and that's pricey as all fuck), but we had serious reservations on the size and condition of the place by comparison to where we were now. There was a lot of dirt in corners, and it looked like it might have been recovering from a black mold problem - something I'm highly allergic to - and that is not something I want to try and deal with over the winter.
After viewing it we came home and discussed it at length, comparing it to the town home we were still hoping to get in, in spite of the weird lack of communication. In the end, even when we considered the vengeance rent increase that current/crazy landlady was instituting on October 1st, it kinda made more sense to just stick it out until something better was found. I mean, if we're going to move, we should at least make it count so we don't have to do this all over again in 6-12 months.
We're 'settle down for the long term' people, not 'move the fuck all over the place' people. We've got three kids and a disability: moving isn't exactly something we can make into a fun hobby.

I polled friends and family for additional input and in the end we decided to stay here for now and instead focus our efforts on getting into the townhouse community. The property manager had told us that the community had somewhere around a 20% turnover rate per year, so there was a pretty good chance that there would be regular vacancies available to (re)apply for, and those homes really were the ideal size and living conditions for a family like ours. Especially considering that in the next few years we'll probably need even more space as Tempest gets into her teen years, Zephyra and Xan may need their own spaces, etc.

Finally, we did manage to connect to the property manager about the June application… but not until around September 10th or so. So we were already way past the first of the month when we could reasonably give notice and start planning for an October 1st move. She (Barb) told us that apparently we'd left one space blank on our original paperwork, and rather than just rejecting us or telling us about the mistake, the higher-ups had just placed the whole thing on the side of a desk somewhere for over two months (having never actually made any formal decision on it) so no one had any idea what the fuck was going on and could give her - nor us - any real answers about the status. So… that's awesome. At the very least I got the reassurance that my crazy paranoid theories about crazy/current landlady were nothing more than my own crazy paranoia.

As luck would have it Barb had another vacancy and it was actually right next door to the unit we'd applied for originally! Fucking awesome! I set up an appointment to go look at the unit the next day, though the whole thing was a bit unnecessary since I'd viewed three units previously and I knew what they all looked like as the whole complex was pretty cookie-cutter. I mean they all had the same layout as the townhouses my dad and I lived in when I was something like 15 - in a completely different city - except it had a third floor (basement) with extra rooms, so clearly this was a common layout for contractors at that time. I really didn't need the tour, it was really just a paperwork thing.
The unit she ended up showing me was completely torn apart: floors and walls all over the place, renovation junk everywhere - overall a huge mess.. All the appliances were gone, lots of holes in the walls, carpet was half ripped-up… but since we'd toured the other identical units a few months earlier we didn't mind. Barb explained that this unit was being completely refurbished: everything was either leaving or changing, right down to the walls. The end result meant that the rent was a touch higher (meaning we won't save any money off our current, non-vengeance-raise rent) but we get the bonus of completely new floors, new carpet, new appliances, new bathroom, new kitchen, brand new washer and dryer for free, new everything! And that's pretty fucking kickass if you ask me!

I was obviously happy with the tour, so I took the new application home so that Curtis could sign it after he came home with work (near midnight) and I immediately left messages with current/crazy landlady to let her know that we may have a chance on a place and we'll keep her updated about what's going on with the application. I knew from previous conversations that she wanted to dramatically renovate the place and wanted us out because of that - she's made that pretty clear - so I knew she'd be happy about us giving notice, but I figured we should give her by-the-book updates on our current situation just in case she wants to pull any bullshit.
As it so happens, current/crazy landlady called back that very night (claiming she had no idea when the messages were left… don't know wtf was with that) and was really, really nice on the phone. And I mean really nice. Weird nice.
She was sympathetic, understanding, and kind as she asked if we were totally sure we wanted to move out on our own volition and not simply because, "I was bothering you… because I totally was" she explained.
I told her very honestly that it was a combination of several things: the weird bothering, the raise in rent, the fact that we really did need a bit more space for our growing family and this place had that… she seemed very insistent on us being totally clear that we wanted to move for reasons other than her. I told her again that it was a combination of things.
"But you would move on your own accord without me bothering you, right?"
"Well… probably, yeah. We're getting bigger and need more space, and the rent is too high. I understand if you need to raise the rent--" I said honestly, I know this area can demand far more money than we are paying and she can very easily get a lot more than we're giving her, "--but it's not something we can afford. So we have to move for all of these reasons."
She seemed very happy with that. I'm not entirely sure what's going on with her, but she was being very nice through the phone call so for now that's all I care about at that moment. At least she's not being creepy and weird. I'm never really sure with her… at least nowadays, that is. For years and years she was a great, fantastic landlady. I mean yeah she's a bit odd but not in any way that affected us. It wasn't until these last few months that's suddenly been really strange and rude. I have no idea what happened in her life that made her this way, and I hope (legitimately, I mean I'm not a total asshole) that it's just her being pressured into something and not a dramatic personality change that could indicate serious problems or something. She's a single mom and her ex is a huge asshole so I don't wish any ill on her, I just really wish I could understand her motivations.

Curtis and I turned in the application the next day and the property manager went over it with us to ensure we didn't have any blank spots this time, then told us that we would get an answer back in 24 hours to see if we can move in on October 1st. Meaning we'd have less than 24 days to give notice and move out. So that was an interesting turn.
We went home and immediately called current/crazy landlady, left another message, letting her know that this rush was rather unexpected and that if it's a big problem for her we can reapply for next month instead. She called back that night, still just as cordial, saying that we'd find a way to compromise and she had no intention of charging us any money because she knows we can't afford it. I told her I'd bring up the idea of pushing it to the 15th with the property manager when she called about the application status, and would let her know how it went. The next day current/crazy landlady called again and said that it actually worked better to go on the 1st, that way she could get the house on the market before the late season (November/December) when the rental lull is bad enough that it's difficult to get your units occupied.
She got a bit weird at the mention of a damage deposit, but also said that she really didn't want to go to court and would rather find a solution we're both okay with. I don't want to go to court either, but I'm fairly certain our reasons are different: we don't want to deal with the stress and delay, while she just doesn't want to go back because she knows she'll lose again.

I'm happy to play nice with her as long as she plays nice with us, and I'm happy to give her double what a six inch carpet patch is worth out of good faith… but I'm not going to pay for her to replace an entire 10+ year old carpet simply because, in her words, "The patch might look weird and I don't like that".
In the end we're not actually responsible for it at all, we're just being nice. If we went to court we could easily show that it wasn't our cat that did the damage, and we weren't even the tenants occupying that space when the damage was done, reported and waved off. My mother was signed on as a separate tenant than us, living in the upstairs suite, and she had reported it to crazy landlady. At the time she'd said it was no big deal because she'd planned on taking up the carpet anyway after we all left. Too bad we didn't get that in writing at the time… we all still thought she was a buddy.

Pro-tip: your landlord is never, ever your buddy.

Anyway. I told crazy/current landlady, truthfully, that my father is a well-respected contractor with something like 35+ years experience and can give damage assessments as well as find all the uber awesome deals on things like carpet or paint or whatever. She bristled at this at first, which makes me suspect, but by the end of the conversation she seemed open to it.
So far she says a modified "30 day" notice (with notes about a mutual agreement between both parties regarding leaving earlier) isn't necessary… which makes me think it is absolutely necessary because if we have to take the damage deposit to court she'll pretend we fucked her over. I mean we could always pretend she fucked us over too, but I'd feel really wrong about lying in court in spite of it all. You'd think the she'd get that the paperwork would protect her from us being crappy to her as well… or maybe she just realizes we didn't lie in court last time so we're not likely to do it if we go again. It's too bad we're not shittier people, because sometimes that seems like it really would make life easier. Negating the horrible karma damage, that is.

I'll be so relieved when this stress is all over. It's making me so exhausted, I can't sleep, I'm getting horrific and violent nightmares from the stress and the increased pain… it's awful and I hate it. I just want to be moved and done and not worry about this shit ever again.
In the meantime we're selling almost everything we can live without in order to raise enough money for a security deposit as we anticipate having to fight over getting most of this one back (let alone in time to pay it when we move in). Anyone need a baby bassinet, flawless Maytag washer and dryer set or a crib? I'm not sure how we acquired these things (save for the w/d set), but we certainly don't need them.

(If you follow [ my Tumblr ] you already saw this part, so you can skip it.)

Last week I finally got dental surgery to fix my HG-destroyed teeth. When one vomits 10-30x a day for 9 straight months, and make the mistake of brushing your teeth after every incident, you completely destroy your tooth enamel. My back teeth, particularly along the back gum line where (and forgive me for this) stomach acid tends to build up during particularly awful HG attacks, were starting to crumble. When I saw the specialist last year he said that I'd taken surprisingly good care of my teeth in spite of all this, and the damage was not as severe as he would have thought… but still, considering the repair, my problems with certain anesthesias, intolerance to adrenaline, phobia, cost (dental office costs, hospital is free), potential need for extractions and so on; it was recommended that the procedure/s be done under general anesthesia.
So I signed all the consent forms and he said he'd get back to me with a hospital date. Usually getting the surgery date is not the part that takes a while, it's getting to see a specialist. I've never had it take more than a month and a half to get a surgical date (usually very quickly for more serious incidents, but obviously this wasn't an emergency and could be pushed under the more needy patients).

However, that was over a year ago and I seriously do not understand what took this guy so long to get his shit together. I finally got the call about having a date only about two weeks prior, which meant we had to scramble to schedule Curtis the time off to take care of me that day and get mom to pick up the Elders from school and watch them until we got home.

On the day of the procedure Curtis went into work for a few hours to get as much prep done as possible, and we drove out around noon. Hospitals scare the ever-loving fuck out of me, for obvious reasons, and I was really proud of myself for how well I was doing while I waited. My anxiety was a constant background noise, but it wasn't overwhelming. When I had to be separated from Curtis it got a little worse, but I was still controlling it. Just before I went in a third year resident pulled me aside and asked me about 20 minutes worth of questions about my medical history and various diagnoses and so on, and he had enough of a sense of humour about it that it kept me distracted, though I'm not entirely sure he understood that methadone treatment can also used to treat acute, chronic pain because he did not seem to believe me when I said 'no' to the "illegal substances" question.

I stayed calm right up until we got into the operating room and they started hooking me up. As soon as I heard my (rapidly increasing) heartbeat on the monitor, everything became completely overwhelming. All of the cesarean and Jericho stuff came over me like a tsunami of post-traumatic panic and I felt really ill.
I closed my eyes and tried to stay calm with deep breathing, listening to everyone scurry about and hook up all the machines, but clearly I wasn't doing that great a job because after a moment a doctor came over to me and remarked, "All the colour just drained out of your hands and face. Your hands are really, really pale… are you doing okay?". At that point I couldn't hold it together and just burst into tears.
The nurse next to me looked very sympathetic, so I told her, "The last time I was in an operating room, my son died".
I literally didn't explain any further than that, and it's like she instinctively knew that there was more to it than grief and guilt. She immediately came close and started talking me through my panic, saying things like, "You’re safe in here, we have lots of people making sure you’re safe and nothing will happen to your body, we’re just going to fix your teeth and that’s all, no one is going to do anything else. You’ll wake up in recovery in just a few minutes and you’ll be completely fine. I’ll be right here." I felt like she must have had special training for PTSD survivors because these are very similar to things my therapist would say during heavy sessions.
The nurse continued to give me the most wonderful emotional (and physical) support over the next few minutes. She never left my side. She was stroking my hair (well, hair net anyway), holding my hands, helping prepare me for every single touch, keeping my body and mind distracted (coaxing me to wiggle my toes during IV insertion, keeping me focused on her face when the anaesthesia was taking effect and I absolutely lost my shit, etc). She didn't leave my side until after I was out, and it made a huge difference for me. Nurses like her are amazing and wonderful, and I'm so grateful for her taking that time to help me through in spite of the fact that the procedure was so minor.

I know I was dreaming through the anesthesia but I don't recall any of the imagery; only that I was panicky and frightened throughout. When I woke up in recovery the pain was really something I was not prepared for. They ended up extracting a couple of teeth and stitching up my jaw (I have insanely long, curved roots on my teeth and they're nasty fuckers to get out). I had one extraction about ten years ago and it literally didn't hurt at all following the actual pulling out part. I never even needed a Tylenol. So this amount of pain took me by surprise. It's been nearly a week and I'm still really hurting, and the whole side of my face is still bright green from bruising. But the worst - THE WORST - is the taste of the dissolving stitches. I mean seriously what the fuck it's 2013 is there a reason why these have to taste like rotting flesh? Oh my god. It makes me want to throw up, it's so disgusting. I haven't let Curtis kiss me since the surgery because I'm too afraid that all he'll be able to think about is sucking zombie face. I know I will.

Before I left the hospital they pumped me full of about 25g or mg or ml or whatever of morphine, and made comments about my very high tolerance for both the anesthesia and for pain medication (which I warned them about well in advance). Then the doctor came over and told me that since I was already a pain patient, I didn't need any additional meds for treatment since I can just take my own, and he sent me home with a prescription pad that said, "take ibuprofen".
LC pointed out later how ridiculous that all sounds: your tolerance for meds is insanely high and we recognize you're in terrible pain, here's 5x the amount of morphine that most people take, but I'm sure ibuprofen will be fine once you get home.
This happens a lot with pain patients. The hospitals can never seem to get this shit right. The thing is, I do have breakthrough medication at home… but that's all it's for: breakthrough pain. My breakthrough prescription is not designed to be taken regularly, on a constant basis in order to treat the pain of recovering from surgery. For one because I would build up a tolerance to it and it would fuck up everything, and secondly because I simply don't have enough in my script for that. I would run out in like a week.

While typing this a huge section of thread came out of my jaw and I spit it into my hand. ARGGHHHDFDFFLJJJJDGBBBBBLLPPPTTTT. SO GROSS. JESUS.

I've felt like total ass since the surgery not just because of the pain but also because I'm completely fucking exhausted. The stress of moving, the stress of having a really horrible flare-up a week prior to that which made me really realize I have an autoimmune disease for the first time in my life, the stress of cleaning and organizing and worrying about money because moving is always expensive no matter how much you cut costs. Last night I had a constant stream of violent, gory nightmares that involved horrific things like giant sharp sticks stuck inside my cat, people being murdered, or witnessing a uterine prolapse and all sorts of weird terrible shit that ended up terrifying me enough to keep me awake most of the night. This tends to happen when I get stressed out enough that my pain gets bad, and it's really fucking annoying. This kind of thing makes me wish I could take sleeping pills (I've tried in the past, but they never work for me).

As an interesting and slightly disturbing fact, the dentist told me that apparently I'm part shark. Not only have I grown several extra wisdom teeth in my adult life (3-4 behind my existing ones, that have fully grown in without issue as my mouth/jaw are huge and have tons of space), and having another wisdom tooth grow in the place of the one I had extracted ten years ago, apparently the two I just had removed last week will likely grow back. He said that I have a secondary set of all my wisdom teeth just sitting up there waiting. They aren't causing any problems and there doesn't appear to be any risk of impaction or complication later on… they're just quietly sitting up there waiting for the space to open up.

So this means I'm up to 38-40 teeth. For comparison, there are 32 in a normal adult mouth.

Moar random photos!

We had Tempest's "Ten" Doctor Who party on August 31st. Curtis and I stayed up the night before watching the Star Trek reboots, drinking rum and drawing on paper bags while the last of the foodstuffs and goodies were sorted. Despite a poor turn-out (out of 12 people who said they would come, only like 4 showed up), I'm really happy with the decor: it was super adorable. When LC arrived she even drew up a "pin the eyestalk on the Dalek" game.

Adipose marshmallows: the fat just walks away!

Tardis goody bags.

Tardis cake! This was so amazing in so many ways. Seriously, how beautiful did this turn out to be?

There's a little Adipose hitchhiker on it, too. About a quarter of the Adipose marshmallow people had their limbs "glued" on (using icing sugar paste) in a state of climbing or running so I could pose them around the table, in other dishes of food, climbing on cups, etc.

This was the only photo I got of the actual party, just as Tempest was preparing to 'blow out' the candles. Well, sparklers anyway.

I didn't get any photos of the festivities because for one it was way too busy, and because I was too tired to get all my shit out at that point. LC and kids stayed overnight so the kids could get their party on for the next 24 hours. After the rest of the kids went home, everyone went outside and turned the hose on to enjoy one of the last hot weekends of the year. Z was out there completely naked, everyone else was in their clothes or underpants, spraying and screaming and getting completely soaked to the bone. They passed out pretty good as soon as they came inside; it was kind of wonderful to see them actually find something to occupy them for hours at a time that didn't involve screens.

Speaking of screens: everyone watching Adventure Time the morning after.

The first (and last) time that all three kids will take a bath together. The mess was atrocious.

Our last family outing of the season was down at the potholes (rivers and large pools for swimming). As we were heading out to find a good spot, Xan discovered this awesome hollowed out tree.

Z and Curtis swimming.

We were there for something like four hours and the kids had an amazing time swimming and playing. Tempest is a pretty good swimmer but Xan can't do much else but float at this point, so we stayed very close to him. His lack of aquatic skill didn't exactly deter him though: he was often wading up to his neck and we were constantly reminding him to not go in that deep without physically holding on to one of us.
Zephyra, on the other hand, pretty much hated being in the water. She'd wade in the tiny shallows that were no deeper than her knees and play with the rocks and stuff, but I could NOT get her to float or play with us in the deeper parts. Every time I tried to play with her she'd scream about her bum feeling cold and try to climb up my chest and stand on my neck. It was amusing to the other people standing around, but not particularly fun for me.

A couple of days after that, my friend Lauren came into town with her daughter Frankie who is close to Xan's age. They haven't seen each other since they were babies, so this was their first memorable meeting.
Shortly after this photo was taken, Frankie whispered to her mum that Xan was going to make excellent husband material and she most definitely had a crush on him. Then he gave her a kiss and she pretended to swoon for the rest of the afternoon. It was adorable.

Xan's new haircut request for school, and his ridiculously awkward camera face because I could not get him to just look normal for me for JUST ONE FRAME.

He almost went with a Pugsley Adam's haircut (ie. buzzed everywhere but the bangs) but ended up with the mohawk instead. It was a huge hit when he went back to school and he's received endless compliments about it.

Links of the Day:
Girls with anorexia show characteristics of autism - This is kind of fascinating. While the similarities aren't huge, there is enough of an overlap to consider that many girls with anorexia may have mild autism, and it opens up new avenues for treatment.
How I survived a plane crash - I came onto this story the other night while Wikipedia jumping, and it is truly fascinating. In 1971 lightning struck a plane flying over Peru and it crashed in the middle of the rainforest. Only one person survived: a 17 year old girl, who was thrown out of the plane still buckled into her seat, and awoke in a canopy with moderate injuries and still able to walk. She was separated from the wreckage and the rest of the casualties, including her mother, and ended up trekking ten days through the jungle before finding civilization and rescue.
Why I stopped being a grammar snob - As a recovering grammar snob, this resonated with me… especially because it makes some REALLY GOOD POINTS about classism and the multitude of different "english"s being spoken out there.
NICU program gives parents charge of baby's care cuts stress - I think this is a no-brainer for anyone who has ever had a baby in the NICU. Still, it's fucking wonderful that this is finally happening and I hope it spreads quickly because the results are amazing. "There was a 25 per cent improvement in weight gain of the babies who were looked after by the parents. Breastfeeding rates doubled from 40-something per cent to over 80 per cent. Infection rates fell from 11 per cent in the nurse group to zero in the parent group. Treatment errors dropped by 25 per cent. Parental satisfaction went up, parental stress went down."

babyslime — Mon, 26 Aug 2013 01:14:35 GMT

I had two hospital calls back to back a few weeks ago, and they were dramatically different in how the staff handled the cases, even though the calls were less than 24 hours apart.

Before I get into it, it might help to get some context on why I say absolutely nothing to shitty people being shitty: I try really hard to keep a good working relationship with everyone I meet while on "duty", because I'm the lead person here and often the only one doing this job, so it's really fucking important that people and staff feel okay to call me. I try to make sure there's never anything in the way of that, like me being angry or bitchy at them this one time. That may sound extreme, but you never know if a nurse you meet one night is going to be the kind of person that holds totally unnecessary, long grudges. I've known some people like that, and they are absolutely impossible people to be around; so I try to be very careful and very professional even though the majority of people I meet are not like that and are totally decent.
That said, there are some nights where this is a lot harder than I expect it to be because sometimes the staff I meet are really fucking horrible. I have met some seriously rude, insensitive and unkind people while doing this job and it really horrifies me every single time it happens.

The first call of the two was for a very tiny 15-17 week old, and he was beautiful and special. He was not the smallest baby I've ever held, but he was close. Sometimes that makes getting pictures challenging, and so the organization frowns upon answering calls that are for babies born less than 26 weeks. The official policy is not to go at all but the actual contract wording is a more open-ended 'up to the photographer' thing, so I've answered quite a few calls for babes considerably smaller than the cut-off. Though, I attend with a warning that I'll do everything I can to get whatever I can, but can't promise images that look like what's on the site.
Generally the kinds of parents who reach out to this organization are the ones who felt like I did when I lost Jericho: who want to gather up anything and everything they can that has even the most remote connection to this little soul, and keep it close to their hearts forever. It is important to treat that need with the care and respect it deserves, so I try really hard to get the smallest, tiniest details because it's those that will fade the fastest.
As I took pictures I realized he had not had any prints taken, so I put a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the door of the room I was in and came up to the desk to ask if they had any ink papers I could use to ensure the parents get something. It's a long shot since the baby is so small, but I figure if I can get even a partial it's better than nothing, right? The nurse told me they "don't do that" anymore for loss parents. Stunned, I asked why not, and she explained, "Well many of those babies aren't even normal. They might even have like only three toes or something, and you don't want a print of something weird like that". She said it with such distain, and yet so casually, as she walked through the NICU full of parents. I just… my brain. It was spinning.

Jericho's condition sometimes affects the way body parts develop due to restricted nutrient flow through the cord, and one of his feet was moderately clubbed and had only 3 "properly" formed toes. We got the same excuse about why no one tried to take a proper print past the first shitty, smudged try. Don't bother, his foot isn't normal anyway.
That's my son. That's my baby. I don't fucking care if two of his toes aren't perfectly normal size or shape - that's my fucking dead child that I will never get to see or hold or kiss again and all I want is just a goddamn print of his feet. No matter what they look like. Because he's my fucking baby.
So shit like that? Hard not to feel furious that someone could make such disgusting comments about a beloved baby that passed away just mere hours before. That baby is cherished and wanted: it does not matter how big they are, or if they had an abnormality, or if they were born still or alive… that parent wants to keep everything they can and the least you can do is offer.

Whenever I try to talk about this kind of encounter with people, or vent online somewhere, I hear the same excuse every single time: "It's a hard job, so you have to disconnect yourself", and I've spent years being sympathetic to that, but at this point I really don't buy it. Don't get me wrong, I understand the job is incredibly hard: the nursing staff often works harder than the doctors do for less recognition and far less pay, they're tired and they do seriously shitty work sometimes. I appreciate and love them for all of that. I supported the nursing strike with all my heart, and I think they deserve more than they get.

But-

- what I do not accept?… is treating grieving parents, and by extension (and sometimes directly) their babies like absolute shit and blaming it on 'being tired'. The problem with that excuse is that your horrible comments to someone on "a bad day" will be with you for 5 minutes, and them for the rest of their lives. How you treat them in those few minutes, and what comes out of your mouth, may impact their ability to reach their grief and put a huge wrench in their emotional and psychological recovery from what was already a horribly traumatic event before you even walked in. This is a core part of your job: dealing with patients and helping them cope. THAT IS LITERALLY WHAT YOU SIGNED UP FOR. It's like getting a job at an information desk and then being angry with people who ask you questions: you fucking knew what this job entailed, why the hell are you punishing people for needing you to do it properly?!

The night Jericho died I had nurses who treated me like I wasn't even there, talked over me about their television shows, stripped me naked in front of my friends and family without permission or warning, and hand-waved the pain I felt from their manhandling; and that all stuck with me in horrible ways. I was already disconnected and terrified by my experience. I felt like I was becoming part of the machines around me and that I would never find my way back to reality. I felt like I'd broken into pieces and could never be put back together. Being treated like a thing instead of a person did nothing but feed into that despair and loneliness.
Similarly, the deeply heartfelt actions and words of the staff who visited me the following days allowed me to really cry for the first time. Through their kindness I was able to touch a small piece of my grief in a safe and supported way… and feel okay about it. Those seemingly small acts of care and validation from strangers gave me the ability to catch my breath, just for a moment, and realize there were ways to try and work through this (eventually leading to me writing it out in paper journals that I would transfer to my blog after my release - something that helped me get through the first months without losing my mind).
Those few moments you spend with those parents matter far more then you can comprehend. If you can't hold it together long enough to treat a grieving parent and their baby with respect, get help from a coworker, or go find a few minutes alone to meditate on centring yourself before you enter the room. You have to - have to - leave your bullshit at the door. Somebody's life may depend on it.

So nowadays when I see staff saying things like "it needs to go back in the freezer" right in front of the parents, or making 'jokes' to me about how their baby is going to be thrown in the trash - THE FUCKING TRASH - it's really hard not to feel personally insulted. And even harder not to scream and shout at them about it.
This is somebody's life falling apart that you are talking about; someone's shattered hopes and dreams and the total loss of a future that you may literally be holding in your hands. Can you at the very least try and hold the smallest amount of respect for that? For like ten fucking seconds? Sometimes I really just want to shove them out the door and scream, "Do that on your own fucking time, you heartless sack of shit".
But I don't.
Instead I smile politely. And I thank them for their time, I find a quiet place to do my job, and I wait until I'm home to vent.

And it's really not hard to show compassion to someone. It isn't. Even if you haven't personally experienced that kind of loss, you can empathize with what people are going through, and you can be gentle and respectful. When I do my job, I talk to the babies - whether I'm alone or with the whole family there - and I tell them that they are important, that they are loved and beautiful. I apologize if I move them into a position that looks uncomfortable. I try to keep their faces clear of blankets or pillows. I hold them carefully and never let their little bodies hang or drop. I brush back little locs of hair off their foreheads. I tell them they are wonderful little people that I am glad to have met. And I mean every single word, every single time. Because they are people, not things, and their bodies deserve to be touched with the utmost care and respect. You wouldn't piss on someone's grave, and neither should you manhandle a baby's body.
I try keep a close eye on the mood of the room and gauge my behaviour based on that. If the parents don't look like they're ok with me talking, I stop and do it in my head. If they look uncomfortable, I cut my visit very short. If they look scared and alone, I let them know they aren't, and I've been there too. Sometimes I stay for an hour and a half cuddling a baby with a mom and dad, just talking it out, if that's what they need. Sometimes I'm in and out in 15 minutes and barely say a word. I've given many families my personal phone number and told them to PLEASE call me at 3am if they feel hopeless. Hell, even Curtis has offered himself to other dads if they need to talk about how another grieving father handled (and in some cases, did not handle) their pain and how it affects them differently. So far no one has awakened me at night, but many have called me during the day or emailed when they needed to talk.
That isn't part of the job and we're not supposed to do that, but I can't imagine walking away from a mama who asks, "Did you lose someone too? How did you get through?" with that terrified look in her eyes. Because I know what that feels like, I know that hopelessness and absolute terror, I know that vulnerability and I know how easily it can be abused and exploited by uncaring staff, family or random assholes on the internet who accuse you of 'milking it' if you dare feel sad longer than the prescribed amount of time they think you should. I can't just turn my back on that and make some shitty comment about how she'll "Get over it" and then return to my family feeling proud of myself.

I mean shit, I get it when staff feel can feel overwhelmed by that. I really do - it is overwhelming sometimes. Can it be really hard to do? Absolutely. There have been many occasions when I couldn't help but cry, especially the times I've watched the life leave a little person's eyes right there in front of me, and there are many times when I feel my own pain seeping in and it physically hurts to be there and hear the tortured sobs of someone who is so desperate to see their child breathe one more time.
Does it feel uncomfortable sometimes? Of course. There were even some times in the very beginning, before I'd been able to fully understand the course of my own grief, when I'd see parents and family grieving in very unexpected ways and it felt very jarring. But even then I knew to keep that shit to myself because you have no right to make any assumptions about how another person handles their pain. Some people disassociate, disconnect, get angry, get hysterical, get possessive, get afraid, get weird, or rude, make dark jokes, laugh, cry, or even run away as fast as they can… and every single one of them is grieving the "right" way. It's the way they need to deal with one of the most horrific events that can ever happen to a person, and even if you've gone through a loss yourself you can't really understand how someone else's unique life experience has taught them to deal with that terrifying tidal wave of emotional horror… so you just have to be there with them, and let them know they aren't alone, and that whatever they feel is ok, and their babies are beloved and important. Everything they feel, and everything they do is okay, and is a normal part of grief. It's normal to cry, it's normal to laugh, it's normal to feel nothing at all. It's normal to hurt 10 years later, or feel like you don't hurt enough only two weeks after.
No one gets to judge that inadequate, or excessive, or wrong.
No one.

I'm not writing this for some kind of outpouring of support for being a volunteer or something (though if you feel compelled to donate to the organization and support the parents who need it, [ please do so ] ) - I'm just feeling really angry about this kind of shit and I want to illustrate how I really do get how challenging or emotional it can be, but that it's also really not fucking hard to be a non-douchey person while you're doing it. You don't have to be someone's grief counsellor if that's outside your boundaries, but you do owe it to them to be a decent human being when you walk in the damn room.

I don't want to keep hearing crap and seeing that bullshit and having moms tell me about the horrible and insensitive comments that staff has made to them, trying to laugh it off so they can feel okay about how hurt they are. I don't want nurses to keep coming up to me like I'm totally going to be on their side while they make sick jokes about how gross a baby with a birth abnormality is. I don't want to keep hearing, "Well she was probably tired" as a totally okay reason to tell a mom that her baby's body is "biological waste" and she shouldn't kiss something so unsanitary. I don't even care if it's "technically" true or it's what they believe or what - you don't say that kind of shit to someone who is trying to process the loss of their child. You just don't.
And if this is really and truly the only way you know how to deal with the emotionally difficult parts of your job, please do it somewhere else, where your words and your actions can never ever ever make it back to the parents. I mean jesus christ, this really shouldn't be a thing that needs to be said.

I was still reeling from the 'ew three toes' comment when I got a call the next night for another baby, this time closer to 28 weeks. This time it was a completely different experience, and was nothing short of incredible.
Generally when I get there I have to push a little to be given access to a more appropriate space to do the photos, and sometimes this means waiting by a desk for up to 20-25 minutes before someone is willing to talk to me or give me the new code for the NICU's staff entrance (this is easier and doesn't disturb the other parents who may be up near the front). This time wasn't much different, but when a nurse was called over to give me a hand he immediately introduced himself. That alone made an impact on me, as almost no one bothers to do this. He was very kind and gentle, and asked me if I needed a hand getting in. He offered to help find an isolette for the baby, and then help wheel her into the back room. As we walked, he said, "This must be a hard job to do".
"Sometimes," I answered honestly. "But I want to do it. I lost my son almost 8 years ago now, and these services weren't available to me. I want to give that to other parents."
And he gave me a genuine smile.

When we got into the back room he told me to wait a moment while he found some "Better blankets". He said that the standard hospital fare is rather sterile, and this baby deserves to have a nice blanket to be wrapped in. "I know you want these photos to be as beautiful as possible for her parents, so I'm positive I can find something better". I was deeply touched, and waited patiently in the back. He returned about ten minutes later with a handful of things. The first was a pink blanket with baby patterns on it, though he apologized for it not being very lovely. The second set were tiny little cotton blankets, about 12x6 inches or so.
"We use these to help prop up our smallest babies in the NICU. I thought maybe they might help you get some better poses with such a little baby".
I could have cried. In my 6 years here no one has ever offered me this. I didn't even know these blankets existed. I was standing there in stunned silence for what seemed like a very long time as he passed things to me one by one, explaining each of them as he went and apologizing that they weren't better, or that there wasn't more he could find.
"Do you need anything else?"
"No, this is good. Thank you so much."
"It's no problem. Let me know if you need anything more." And he left.
The little propping blankets were a huge help, and I felt really good about the pictures I got. When I was done I swaddled baby back up and put her back in the bed, then started wheeling the isolette back into the store room.
The same nurse saw me struggling with the door and the cot as I tried to leave through the back door, and immediately jumped in to help. He grabbed the cot and helped me get baby back to where she needed to be. As we walked, I explained to him that no one had ever offered to help make things easier, or get blankets, or anything. Not ever. I said I was truly grateful for his assistance, and his attitude.
He was very modest, and did not accept the compliments; he turned the conversation back to me, told me I was amazing for what I did, and sincerely thanked me for being there. He said he knew how important it was to get the best images possible, "And I imagine you understand that better than anyone."
I asked him what his name was. "Edward," he answered.
"I'm Heather, and it's really wonderful to meet you." I shook his hand, and he gave me a genuine smile before returning to his post.

I don't expect everyone I meet to be an Edward; I know that a person like him is rare to come by, and I am incredibly grateful to have met him right when I needed my faith in humanity restored. I know people have good days and bad days, and this job can be hard. I respect that some people are deeply uncomfortable with death, and may be dealing with their own demons. It would be really wonderful if everyone showed the kind of compassion Edward did, but I'm not asking for miracles. All I want to see when I'm working is staff that's respectful.
They can be quietly respectful, they can be involved helpers who spend a few minutes giving a hug or some reassurance to someone who needs it, they can be someone who simply has a kind smile and gives someone's shoulder a squeeze, they can even just be someone who gives a grieving parent the name of a social worker or contact in the hospital she can talk to if they themselves don't think they can do that… and the thing is, I really don't think that's too much to ask. I don't think it's unreasonable to want those things. I don't think it's unreasonable to ask someone to handle a family with care and gentleness. I don't think it's unreasonable to ask someone to be quiet if they're having trouble dealing with the heaviness of the situation. I don't think it's unreasonable to expect someone to simply not be a giant asshole to people in extremely vulnerable states.

No one needs to be a miracle worker; but you do need to be a human being, and that's not too much to ask.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I have to write a letter to the hospital requesting that Edward receive a promotion and a raise. It's people like him that can make a huge difference in people's lives, simply by showing a little extra compassion to someone who is desperately in need of it… and there needs to be more recognition, and way more appreciation of that.

babyslime — Wed, 21 Aug 2013 08:47:37 GMT

We've been trying to have more outings as a family during this summer vacation, especially since Curtis' work shift is so long and difficult that it means we pretty much never see him except on his 'weekends' (and we're both so exhausted that we usually spend half of the first day sleeping while the kids play video games). So, on the latter half of his weekends off we've gone out to lots of trails and taken long drives to cool new spots to explore… it's actually been really awesome. I'm blessed with kids who are really into nature - or are at least as into nature as they are into video games (years of being a mother have taught me that it really isn't as much about 'ideal parenting' as you want to think it is… it's innate) - so it's not hard to get them psyched up for a hike through the rainforest or visiting a new beach.

Recently, Tempest has become fascinated with [ arbutus trees ]. If you're not from the coast, you may not have had the fortune to see one of these trees, as they apparently only grow in a handful of temperate or coastal spots around the world. At least this is what I'm often told by people. Anyway, they have bright red bark most of the year that's super thin, rather papery, and peels off in large chunks revealing a smooth, bright green skin underneath. It makes for a pretty [ awesome looking tree ], and there's really nothing else like it in the forests. The last forest we went for a hike in had a massive grove of them, including a huge one deep down the forest trail that had a million carvings all over it (names, hearts, etc), some dating back 15 years or more. That's cool and all but I always feel kind of sad when people carve the ever-loving shit out of lovely old trees; it's like vandalizing nature. Like, was that really necessary?

Aside from gorgeous, vandalized trees… this place was pretty fucking beautiful and the kids have been talking about it non-stop since we left.

Seriously look how gorgeous this place is:

We sat on this bluff and had a picnic. It's the same bluff we visited for a summer picnic when Zephyra was just a few weeks old.

Flashback:

She was so teeny.

Back to the present: Tempest running around on the cliffs, scaring the fuck out of me, just like 10 year olds should.

Xan found this awesome little inlet, you can see him down in the left corner. Shortly after I took this picture we climbed down the cliffside into it so we could search for cool beach finds.

Tempest, king of the castle.

One of the aforementioned cool beach finds.

Xan being all serious and junk.

It's almost impossible to get nice pictures of him without inevitably getting six of these.

Tempest enjoys the view as we head out to the trails.

I would have some cool trail photos, but my camera battery inexplicably went from 95% to 2% at this point, and I didn't bring more than just my lens and my cards because I didn't want to lug my giant bag around. I chalked it up to human error, certain I had simply misread the display (it probably said 5%, not 95%), so I took it home and charged it up so everything would be ready for the wedding I had to shoot that weekend.
Turns out I did not misread it… the battery was fucked. It was working fine at 100% until eight minutes into the outdoor ceremony when it suddenly shut off. Now I haven't been able to run since forever, I just can't physically do it anymore, but you better believe I was going as fast as I fucking could back inside that building for my bag so I could grab my backup battery. This is why professionals bring backups, people: for shit like this. This is also a good example of the difference between that guy on Craigslist you can hire for $500, and a professional.
I got back just in time for the ring exchange and kiss, and fortunately didn't miss anything important. It ended up being a super amazing, awesome wedding and an amazing couple and I'm really pumped about the images… but because anxiety gotta anxiety I spent literally the next eight days waking up hours before I should, stressing about whether or not I said something wrong or inappropriate or my joke wasn't funny. I'm so over this on-and-off anxiety shit right now. So over it.

In other picture and crazy news: on the 7th of this month Tempest turned ten. TENNNNNNNNN. I'm going a bit nuts over that; I can't believe she's in the double-digits already. It feels like an entire decade of my life as a mother went stupidly fast, and I can't even remember the little skinny-limbed, peachy-fuzz baby that made me a mama. Now she's like this lanky pre-teen who is tall, a bit awkward, absolutely gorgeous; and reaching a point in her life where she and I can have actual, real, interesting, conversations about actual, real topics. That sounds kind of bad to say out loud, but I mean sometimes you've had your fill of the 50th conversation that day about Minecraft and what totally not funny video they saw on YouTube that morning.
I've spent years wondering (and kind of worrying) if my kids would ever get to a point in their lives when we could hang-out with them on a regular basis having nice conversations that felt organic and legitimately interesting (in that mature and friendly way, rather than the mom sort of way). I have several friends with much older kids (12-18) who talk about being able to take them out to lunch and hang out in this really comfortable, friendly way and I'd sit there wondering if that was something that could even happen given Tempest's challenges. There were a long few years of her life where I was really worried over her development, and how all of this would work.
ASD kids differ so much from each other, it's impossible to compare one case to another - so I can't use my own experiences and feelings as a source - and she seemed so "stuck" for so long that it made it hard to visualize her maturing past that point. But she's made so many incredible improvements in the last little while, especially this last year or so, and she's really come into her own. Looking at her today, she's not at all the same kid she was at six or seven. She'll always be autistic and struggle with certain ideas, situations, feelings or concepts (in spite of what some therapists in our lives have said, you don't "get over" it simply because you can learn to hold it together enough to appear initially neurotypical as an adult) but she's gained a lot more control over her ability to find and utilize coping skills now, and that alone is huge progress.

Earlier this week at the park she approached this little girl her age (almost 10) to invite her and her brother (who was, coincidentally, also six) to play. I saw their step-mom sitting on the ground, nervously trying to breastfeed a smaller baby while struggling with a nursing cover, and sat down next to her to nurse Z in a quiet act of solidarity. After exchanging pleasantries, she mentioned how happy she was that Tempest had approached her step-daughter to invite her to play… as she's very awkward and tends not to talk to kids, even if she desperately wants to. I wasn't sure if I was picking up on a conscious use of autism code words or not, so I played it safe and told her how awesome that was for her to say that, seeing as Tempest is on the spectrum and has spent years struggling with that herself. We talked for a while about how helpful this "social cues" class for spectrum kids was for her (which we took Tempest to over a course of six weeks, earlier this year - a free service provided in part by researchers) and how this last year of entering that sort of weird almost-puberty phase of life has resulted in the opposite effect I was worrying over; and instead seems to have centred her (at least for now - who knows what'll happen once the hormones really kick in).
Nowadays I can actually see the 'little Tempest' growing into this youth-not-quite-preteen Tempest; finally coming out of that eternal childhood that you worry about as a parent of a spectrum child. It's really cool, a relief, a joy, and kind of weird all at once.

Like the other day I had my laptop in the kitchen with me while preparing dinner, watching [ a really interesting documentary about North Korea ], and Tempest kept coming in and out of the kitchen to complain about how hungry she was and ended up catching a few parts of the film. I didn't think she'd care and kept shooing her away so I could finish cooking (I was frequently flipping tabs to return to the instructions), but to my surprise she kept sneaking back in to try and see more of the film. She was actually really curious about what was going on, and wanted to know more about the situation. I ended up pausing the movie and spent the next 20 minutes talking to her about what's going on and how it effects the people who live there. She was shocked and fascinated. I very rarely see real, spontaneous emotional reactions in her but was surprised to her react in very real shock and dismay as I talked about things like camps and cultural brainwashing. She ended up really wanting to watch the film on her own, and begged me to let her over the next three days. I felt kind of iffy about it, just given the intensity of the subject matter… but eventually I relented and set it up for her during a 'quiet time' period of the day. She only made it half-way through before feeling like it was a bit too complex for her and getting distracted, but I'm pretty fucking amazed and proud of her for that.

Ten.

TEN! This is what a ten year old girl looks like now. This is what having a ten year old is like… it's kind of amazing.
(Though the constant stream of, "omg u do not look old enough to have a ten year old. What were u like 12?" whenever we're out and someone asks me how old my kids are is getting really, really tiresome).

Just a few days before her birthday, she pulled my last childhood dress out of her closet and put it on. It was the last dress my grandmother hand-sewed for me before she died, about a month before my 9th birthday. She used to make me a new dress every year.
The fabric was a little loose and pulled in spots, and one half of the tie was missing, but Tempest was still desperate to put it on. So, I tried to repair it using my sewing machine, and by grace of God I actually managed to improve it's condition considerably. I'm a horrible, horrible seamstress and can barely hem pants so this was a pretty significant event for me.
I tried to take a picture of her with the dress on, but she was insistent it wasn't quite cute enough. She tried adding the cat.

But quickly changed her mind and instead asked if I would put some make-up on her. I took her upstairs into our bathroom where all my makeup and hair things are stored and gave her a little make-over. Being a fair redhead, she has completely invisible eyebrows and eyelashes, so when I put mascara on her it always has a really notable effect. (The day she was born my mother - who is also a fair redhead - held her and said, "I'll buy her so much mascara when she's older", lol). After the makeup I did her hair with a pretty barrette I found, and let her wear my wedding necklace and a pair of matching earrings. She looked at herself in the mirror for a long time afterward, smiling brightly, and said, "I feel like a princess". She asked me to take her photo, so I took her outside in the front yard and brought out my camera. She looks so old and beautiful and mature and it makes me crazy to look at these and try to remember ten whole years all at once. Ten years - TEN YEARS! - she's been growing and maturing and remembering and becoming this whole new person. Sometimes it just sort of hits you all over again, and you look at your kids and think, "Holy zombie Jesus I don't think I understand how this person once existed only on the inside of me".

I MEAN LOOK AT THIS.

I seriously don't know how to take that.

My little tiny, lanky, peach-fuzz-covered baby who was born on a storming summer day, still peacefully enclosed in the caul after 44 hours of hard labour, is now this proper young person who is just about ready to be a teenager. I feel like I'm going to wake up tomorrow and she'll walk out of her room all groggy and 18 years old.

Happy birthday, little one. You're freakin' ten.

Two hours old.

One month.

9 months.

2 years.

4 years.

6 years.

8 years.

And now at ten.

Links of the Day:
The Farm Bill - An intense read, but absolutely worth it. A personal story about how food stamps save lives, and work exactly as they're supposed to… don't change them.
Stand our ground - A gun reform advocacy group is taking aim at Stand Your Ground laws nationwide by pushing a chilling ad reenacting the last moments of Trayvon Martin’s life.
Giygas: a psychoanalysis of evil itself - Having just beat Earthbound for the kids a few days ago, this article is of great interest to me. Seriously though, if you're an Earthbound fan you will not want to miss this, it's a completely fantastic breakdown of Giugue/Giygas' evolution as the best gaming villian ever.
30 examples of Christian privilege - Have a Christian friend who insists they're persecuted because they're a Christian in the states? Try sending them this.
Cosleeping and biological imperatives: why human babies do not and should not sleep alone - This is an incredibly informative and really well written (and non-judgemental) article about cosleeping (room-sharing and bedsharing), breastfeeding, biology and so on.
Webcam hacking goes mainstream - My brother, who really knows his shit about computers, shared this on his Facebook. If you have a teen or know someone who does, SHARE THIS FAR AND WIDE. This is no joke. My brother's advice was: "This is real. This story is not exaggerated or over-sensationalized. Unfortunately our laptops and other digital devices can be easily hacked - Windows or Mac - doesn't matter. Here are some things you can do:
* Keep all your software up to date. These updates close the security flaws that creepers exploit.
* Close your laptop's lid when you're not using it.
* If you don't want to close it, put something opaque over the camera when you're not using it (tape/cloth?).
* Don't keep intimate pictures on it. Better yet for teens, don't take *any* intimate digital pictures of yourself. That's whole other conversation by itself.
* Don't keep your laptop where you undress, like your bedroom or bathroom.
* If a creeper does get to your stuff, GET HELP. Giving in to their demands will only allow them to further exploit you. The only way to take away their power is to come clean and get help.
Please talk to the girls and young women in your life about this. Boys too. They're not usually targets but we need to make sure they know how cruel this can be."

babyslime — Fri, 16 Aug 2013 06:30:35 GMT

Every time I open up a notepad to write I feel like we're at this awkward dry spell in our relationship where I'm trying to initiate sex after like three months of virtually no contact and can't remember how to seduce someone anymore. Except instead of a person I'm trying to seduce words onto a white screen.

It isn't that I don't have a million things to write about, it's that I feel like I can't express anything - like I've stopped myself up and I can't just relax and get into it. I just need some sort of writing joint, or something.
I spent a good part of this year dipping dangerously close to depression for the first time in a very, very long time and it was absolutely terrifying for me. In the past, my therapy was writing and it was a wonderful thing for me, but for some reason I couldn't write through this… maybe because it didn't really have a "reason" the way the other depression did. It was just depression for the sake of depression; and that always feels so selfish and weirdly comfortable. To write through it is to be indulgent, and instead of letting it go I felt myself wrapping everything up and holding it all very close to my chest. It took every ounce of strength in me just to talk it through with Curtis and admit that I needed his support to see myself through the other side.
And in the end it wasn't even that bad or that long. It was fleeting and ambiguous by comparison to the depths of crisis I've felt at other times in my life. There was a certain level of embarrassment that came along with feeling that incapacitated by what amounts to practically nothing.

I feel happier today. I feel stable most of the time, and it's been many months since I've slipped out of bed while Curtis slept so my crying would not wake him… but long after you've freed yourself from the web there always seems to be a mess of tiny little strings left on your skin that snap and break as you walk away; and they remind you that you haven't been free as long as you think you have. The vulnerability that comes with it continues to remind you of how close you came to being lost. I do not feel as strong as I was before, and in the wake of a Crisis of Nothing the things that I could easily brush off before are chewing through my skin.
I worry about how to not piss off our insane landlady while she vindictively refuses to complete any repairs or answer maintenance calls for the house, even with issues that are now bordering on health hazards (ie. non working plumbing in the upstairs for almost a year, windows that cannot be opened).
I worry about trying to find another home "in time" before her raise of the rent kicks in. We live in a nice area, but just on the border so our rent price is extremely low for the area (but average for the city) - looking even a block or so in from where we are and the prices raise by hundreds and hundreds of dollars, for less space and more restrictions. But the further away we go from the area the more money we'll spend on commuting, and our gas prices are among the highest in the country (and far higher than the USA) so finding a balance is difficult.
I spend far, far too many hours thinking about my sister; wishing she were a bigger person instead of someone who can so easily throw valuable things away. A comment she made about something I felt was pretty wonderful eventually made its way back to my ears and I was so hurt. It continues to baffle me how unattached she seems to be, and in turn it makes my level of attachment to her to seem completely ridiculous.
I worry about Curtis' family, and if they'll ever come around… even though he has long given up on them. He hasn't needed his parents love in a very long time, so it's a little confusing for me that I seem to. At the same time, I'm furious with them for throwing us away like trash. For throwing our children away for the sake some ridiculously petty argument, in spite of Curtis' repeated attempts to open conversation and have frank discussions with his mother. Email after unanswered email is lost into the vacuum, and I can't tell if I'm more awed or disturbed by Curtis' inability to be hurt by it all.
I worry about whether or not I've failed as a mother and a care-giver because of the fact that I've yelled at my kids today… or they've screamed too loudly while outside and one of the neighbours came out to glower at us in a menacing way for several minutes while I talked to them about how inappropriate their volume and level of craziness is. I worry every single day that I've seriously fucked them up somehow by not being the caliber of parent that everyone else seems to be.

The thing about struggling with anxiety is that these things are always there, but when you're stable and strong you can keep them at bay or only allow them to come out when you're capable of addressing the issues properly… but when you're weakened, it slips into everything you do. Every moment of insomnia, every quiet moment while washing dishes, every weak moment where you start losing your temper and want to break down crying.

At the very least, the coming of summer and hot, beautiful sunshine has improved my mood. I try to be outside at least a little bit every day and it really is the best medicine. When it's hot and beautiful and we're out doing things, I feel revitalized; better equipped to deal with the anxiety, and all the shit just fades away. As the weather slowly starts to change and the clouds come back, so to does the feeling that this will never get any better and there's really no hope for anything to change until Z is old enough to attend kindergarten and I may have a realistic chance at a full time job. But then, with that, comes the reality that finding a job while disabled and my condition deteriorating is… not exactly the best prospect. I keep trying to find the time and the motivation to contact the disability resource centre, if for no other reason than finding someone to talk to. It would be nice if there was some sort of support group for parents with disabilities, or a childcare exchange or something, just among others who understand what the limitations are.
There's this stupidly frustrating catch-22 I face right now where the more I'm outside doing shit the better I feel emotionally but the worse I feel physically (and the more I do, the longer lasting the down-time needs to be), but the less I do the worse I feel emotionally even though my physical condition is stable enough to actually do shit I need to do like cook and clean. Over the last six months my pain levels have increased more than they have in the last three years combined, and if I don't want to just have my specialist just keep upping my dose (which I don't - it will just lead to increased tolerance which means it will eventually stop working) I have to find some sort of alternative.
Everyone, even my mother and father, have encouraged me to ask my doctor about getting a 'green card' (for medical marijuana). The stupid part is that despite the fact that I'm extremely against prohibition, very supportive of utilizing marijuana for medicinal purposes (or hell, recreational if that's your style); and even though I know it's a safer and often more effective alternative to adding more pills into my daily diet, I just can't get myself past that mental block of "omg drugs". I had a long conversation about it with a friend last night, and we talked about how ridiculous it is that as a culture we're more accepting of the idea of drinking large amounts of alcohol for pain relief than we are to the idea of picking up a joint or "magic" brownie. And I mean really the worst my specialist can do is say no, yet I feel this weird amount of guilt over the idea of even bringing it up or thinking about it like I've somehow tainted my good standing with him. Really, this is not the kind of thing I want to teach my kids. This isn't even what my mom taught me. This is just culture and school and the horrible D.A.R.E-style brainwashing of the 80's at work. THANKS, OBAMA.

So, Operation: Control The Symptoms of My Disease Effectively, continues to trudge on.

So much has happened over the last month and a half to two months of not writing at all that I can't even begin to catch up on all of it. It's kind of a swirling mass of ups and downs and various things. Some of the highlights include:

My mom had surgery a few weeks ago. She received a gastric sleeve. This is an operation five years in the making. For some context in case new people don't know: she and I have the same disease, take the same medications (though her doses are approximately 2-3x what I take), but hers has progressed significantly further than mine has. Hers was initially discovered at a far worse state of degeneration, and by that point she was at risk of total paralysis without surgery. Large sections of her spine were replaced with metal rods, and she spent almost two years in bed recovering, not knowing if she'd ever walk again. It saved her mobility, kinda, but the degeneration of nerve and tissue by the metal implants continues to cause pain. She gained weight during her two year recovery, leading to diabetes, and a number of other problems came along over the next years that may or may not be related to AS. At this point her mobility is completely shot, and she suffers from extreme levels of all-over pain from polymyalgia. She uses a mobility scooter for almost everything, and a walker for very short distances (but cannot use the walker for more than about 10-12 steps without the pain being so overwhelming that she has to sit and rest). She brought up the idea of gastric surgery to her doctor years ago in hopes that weight loss could improve her symptoms, and pain levels, since she's completely unable to exercise or even attend any sort of effective therapy due to cost/mobility restrictions.
She's spent over five years now in support groups, with nutritionists and dietary planners, meeting with doctors over and over and over as she prepared… and she finally got a date for her surgery in late July and received it just two weeks later. She stayed in hospital for a few days due to her apnea (observation), and was supposed to be released about three days after surgery. Unfortunately, she encountered the most ridiculous clusterfuck following her blood sugar dropping on the day of her supposed release.

What happened with mom is they kept fucking around with her medication dosages and schedules, then acting really surprised when her body went haywire as a result. I don't understand why the hospitals can't trust that chronic pain patients actually know their medication schedule and won't stop ASSURING YOU that they actually know everything better? Seriously, why? This happens to her, and me, whenever we go in for any fucking reason. Or any other chronic pain patient I've ever talked to, for that matter.
They cut her daily med dosage down to 1/4 of her normal without warning or explanation, and then offered her buckets upon buckets of dilaudid (which she refused) explaining that, "It's 10x more powerful than morphine so you'll be fine!".
She's spent 15+ years locked in a trial by fire with pain control and medications, and her med schedule is stable and hasn't been changed in about 7 years - stop fucking with it for no reason. It's the way it is because it WORKS FOR HER and that's what SHE ACTUALLY NEEDS. JESUS WTF.
Throughout this, they didn't even give her any reason - not even a half-assed one like, "Oh it's having problems or conflicts". All they'd say in response to her probing was, 'we don't like that'. We simply don't like it when patients take pain medication for years because that's what they have to do.

So, inevitably she begins to suffer as she enters withdrawal (any med you take regularly, including anti-depressants, will cause you to suffer when taken off cold turkey for no fucking reason) then her blood sugar crashes, just like she told them it would, and they can't get her stabilized because they kept trying to give her shit by mouth. BY MOUTH.
A patient recovering from a gastric surgery.
Unfamiliar pills. That she doesn't even want, or need. By mouth. Each the size of a quarter. Six of them at a damn time.
Then they act incredibly shocked when she kept throwing them up what she could keep down wasn't actually helping. As a result of this clusterfuck it took roughly six hours to stabilize her, rather than the 20 minutes it would have been if they'd just given her a goddamn shot or put her back on her regular dose of her normal meds. She was miserable, frustrated and exhausted. After more fighting, she finally she told them that if they didn't give her her normal meds at her normal dose, she's going to end up in much worse shape and will just walk out of the hospital the next day.
The nurse flat-out told her, "You're not allowed to do that."
"Yes, I can. I know my rights. If you can't stop fucking up my meds I'm going to have to go home just so I can actually take the required dose my doctor has told me I need to take."
And the nurse left the room, and no one offered to help her out, and so the next day she did precisely that: checked herself out AMA so she could take her normal medications… and immediately recovered from all her problems, and felt fine.

Seriously I just can't with hospitals and pain patients. Every time I talk about this kind of shit I get two camps of replies, the first is "omg me too" from everyone who has chronic conditions or pain (or a child with those problems)… the next is, "That never happens to me/anyone I know so they/you probably brought it on herself".
Try having a complicated, chronic condition sometime and then be admitted to the hospital for a reason unrelated to that. Trust me, it's not exactly a walk in the park. And this bullshit is exactly why. Ugh.

It's been a few weeks since that, and she's doing really well. At this point she's still on a largely liquids-only diet, but has managed to get on top of her nausea and vomiting pretty quickly… though she says she's horribly bored with the soups.
A reader recommended a blog called [ "The World According To Eggface" ], which I've been browsing through over the last week or so and it's really freaking awesome. I'm going to print out a number of her entries, recipes and ideas to give to my mom because it's an amazing resource for anyone who has had gastric surgery - both in terms of recipes and ideas, as well as emotional support.
Mom also said she's totally open to me sharing her progress pictures on my blog in hopes that it might help someone else. She's 66 years old, and at roughly 5' tall her starting weight was 252lbs when she was first admitted to the hospital. Yesterday when I visited her, she was at 227lbs and her face and stomach are already looking thinner. I haven't yet pulled the images off the little camera, but I will post them in a photo entry that I'll put up shortly.

The other major development is that Curtis' father finally figured out how to use email. So that was fun.
Curtis went back and forth with him for two days in hopes it would get better before finally showing me all the emails in frustration. Essentially almost two years of family exile is mostly because Curtis used the "f word" on the phone once.

They honestly seem to have no fucking clue. Just... none.

One of the most frustrating elements for Curtis is that he's been sending regular updates, emails, phone calls and birthday wishes all this time (with no response) trying to open up opportunities for conversation… and it's like they all disappear into a vacuum. Sometimes his mom would respond directly to the email (meaning it's tacked onto the bottom) with a short, bullet-point update on how her knee hurt that day or his great uncle got sick and then got better… and he'd always respond back and try to open up an actual conversation about it. But that too would just disappear because no one else was making even the slightest effort to actually open up.
And with all that in mind, his dad actually tried to claim that Curtis had sent no emails because he's a bad son. This kind of shit is so typical of them, the "I accidentally forgot because it will help me win an argument" bullshit they've been doing forever. So that evening Curtis spent 20 minutes re-forwarding the dozens of emails he's sent over these last nearly-two-years - including one short-lived cordial conversation between his mother and him that referenced past emails. Following the mass forward, he somehow avoided adding a "SO THERE, MOTHERFUCKER" at the end. Which is what I probably would have done.
The response? Nothing. He didn't even acknowledge that Curtis had sent all of them.

When Curtis tried to clarify that our family's limitations were what made travel difficult, which is what prompted this entire crap to begin, his father accused him of making up stories or hiding behind his kids. Then he went on a long 'bootstraps' rant before eventually pulling into a completely random stop about how angry he was that we all didn't come down for Psycho Grandma's funeral years ago because, "Don't you know death is inconvenient?".
It was then, and only then, that Curtis actually lost his temper and was the most firm he'd ever been in the email exchange when he said: "Don't ever tell me death is inconvenient. I held my dying son in my arms and not one of you even offered to help in any way, no phone calls, no birthday recognition the years after, no one checked in on us or offered support following the first few days, nothing. Don't you tell me death is inconvenient: I know."
It's also worth pointing out that this woman whose funeral Curtis apparently snubbed openly and unapologetically hated us. For real. Still, Curtis had actually offered to come down, but expressed worry over our finances and his tentative new job - and his mother had said she'd understood and assured him it wasn't necessary because many people weren't able to come on such short notice.

That was about the worst Curtis got as far as coming away from good communication skills. His dad completely ignored it, and just kept goading him until eventually he gave him an all-caps rant about what an "ASHOLE" he'd become, how they'd never again give gifts to our children, and to never contact him again if he was going to "be like this" (without any real explanation of what 'like this' meant. I mean Curtis even apologized repeatedly for various things). It's sad because he tried really, really fucking hard and it just went absolutely nowhere.
When I read through all of Curtis' emails I told him that I've never in my life seen him speak that eloquently and calmly to his parents... and I'm not sure if it's a good thing or a bad thing, because he just sounds so disconnected from it all. So far outside of it that he can actually speak with objectivity. I don't think he has any love left for them.

I mean 11 years of weekly phone calls from Curtis with constant updates on our family, the discovery of my disease and its degeneration, Tempest's trials through diagnosis and the hardship of raising a child with an invisible illness, Xan's bullying, Zephyra's feeding problems... I mean even my fucking cane was literally sent through them to save on shipping, and at that time it opened up YET ANOTHER conversation about why I needed a cane at all, and they still have the audacity to claim that Curtis' bringing up our family's limitations in a recent reply is "spinning stories to avoid blame". The last time he mentioned it, his father literally laughed over the phone and said, "What disability? What are you talking about?".
I just fucking can't.
For a while we even had a fucking newsletter going to them, just to them, that I personally wrote for years that held nothing but updates on that kind of shit. Apparently no one ever read it, or if they did, they didn't care enough about the information about their only grandchildren to actually absorb it.

This kind of crap isn't even isolated to just his parents, it's his entire family. When Curtis' aunt went all psycho a few months ago and sent him a series of nasty emails about what a horrible son he is, she claimed that we must be making all this shit up because, "your family looks so nice in the pictures". I AM NOT EVEN FUCKING KIDDING.

They make me so angry and hurt that I I literally sat in the car on one of the days of these exchanges and practiced what I would say to them in a confrontation. Out loud. FOR HALF AN HOUR. And I can't even hope to be a tenth as calm as he is when talking to them. And he's actually lived his whole fucking life with these people.

After all of this, we decided to give the most recent gift cards to the children back to them with a long letter that very calmly and carefully outlined how upsetting this whole thing is. I'm sick and tired of them treating our children like little posable dolls they can play with at will. It isn't grandparenting if all you do is throw $25 at them 1-2 times a year, and don't give a shit about their unique personalities, challenges, wants, hopes, dreams, ideas… or even bother to try to find out who they are. That's not family: that's bullshit.
I went to visit my mom after this happened and talked to her about it, and she is continually appalled by their behaviour.
"My grandkids are the best thing in my life now. They are my life now. They're all so different, and unique, and wonderful, and I can't imagine not having them here with me. I'd do anything for them… and I don't understand why they don't feel the same way."

Amen to that, mom.

Links of the Day:
Seduced by the illusion - A (male) fitness blogger shows how a few lighting tweaks, a close shave and a bit of sucking in can easily manipulate fitness or dieting 'progress' photos to portray something reality does not. No photoshop required! (hat tip to Poppy)
11 things that took me 42 years to learn - A short, sweet list of life lessons that everyone can use.
"Embarrassed" - A powerful spoken-word poem about breastfeeding in public and the culture of shame that surrounds it. Poet Hollie McNish delivers this amazing piece straight up against a black background in front of a camera, and it really is spectacular.
10 Things I plan to tell my daughter about sex (that aren't about that purity movement crap) - A truly wonderful, short article about addressing sex in a realistic and supportive, body-positive way with your daughters.
Nothing to prove, by the Geek Girls & The Doubleclicks - A music video featuring geek girls being awesome. For best results, share with your favourite geek.
An open apology to all my weight loss clients - From a former weight loss consultant of a 'popular weight loss company'.

babyslime — Thu, 04 Jul 2013 09:20:46 GMT

Xan had surgery on the 25th to remove the little lump off his finger. They aren't entirely sure what it is, but it's probably harmless, so after taking him to the doctor (who then referred us to a dermatologist or a cosmetic surgeon or something) she decided to take it off and biopsy it. We have a follow-up appointment in six weeks, which is kind of ridiculous, but apparently I can call in some time before that to see what the results were; though we're not worried, more just curious.
The worst part about the whole thing was that he had to fast for 12 hours prior to the surgery, and couldn't even have water two hours prior, and it was scheduled in the middle of the afternoon which is the worst time ever for a 6 year old who can't eat for 12 hours. He couldn't even have breakfast. When I told him about this restriction he thought very carefully for a few moments and replied, "I think it's going to be awful to be that famished." (Where did he even learn this word?)

We also missed a special beach day at his school for the surgery, which sucked because we totally would have loved to go, but at least we got to the 'end of the year' BBQ on the Friday prior.
I got to the hospital at 12:15 with Z and Xan and waited for Curtis' bus to arrive; he managed to get the afternoon off so he could help me with Z-sitting and be there for Xan in case he didn't react well to the meds. We waited in a little toy room for about half an hour before they said they were ready to take Xan in… even though he wasn't scheduled for another hour and a half. I ended up having to tell them I would have to wait until Curtis arrived because I really wanted to be in the OR with him when he was put out. Fortunately the nurses were really cool about it, and really great to us, and came in with extra toys and complimented Xan on his bravery and general awesomeness so he was all built up by the time they were ready to start things.
I kept checking in with him to make sure he was okay, and every time he acted like it was no big deal and I was being weird for even thinking he might be freaked out. "Maybe if I was 3 I'd be scared, but not at 6", he said, and he really did mean it. I mean even when we were in the prep area he was just chillin' out reading comic books.

As soon as Curtis arrived they gave me some scrubs to put on and had me follow Xan into the prep and the OR a few minutes after. Even with all that beeping and pinging and wires and tube shit everywhere Xan was so calm. Man, I wish I had that kind of ability. Inwardly I was having a massive panic attack just existing in the hospital, let alone in the OR… I can't do hospitals, there's just so much PTSD shit hanging around in my brain when it comes to them that I don't function well. As horrible as it is to say, this is also part of the reason Curtis got the rest of the day off: I really needed him there as an anchor for me emotionally, because I'd be useless to comfort Xan if I was looking as bad as I felt. When someone is there with me, 70% of the freakout is gone, they don't even have to do anything except be nearby; it's the whole "alone" and "in hospital" thing that gets me, I think.

They started him on the drip but, like me, he's apparently resistant to anesthesia and eventually they went with the mask as well. He freaked out for a few seconds when they first put it on, and I was in the midst of using my phone recording a message he'd planned to give to Curtis so I caught a few seconds of it at the end before I shut it off. It may sound creepy but I probably watched it 20 times while waiting for him to come out trying to analyze if he was scared or just uncomfortable. He looked scared to me, but turns out he just hated the taste of the gas and was making a fuss about that.

The 15 or so minutes they estimated the surgery would take ended up turning into 45 minutes, which was a little panic-inducing. They never did say why, so I'm assuming it's within the realm of normal. We spent most of that time blowing bubbles for Z in the toy room.

Once Xan woke up he was a tad weepy from the anesthesia fog. He just leaned against me and pathetically cried into my chest. I was worried he was really hurting, but once he got enough of his wits about him to speak effectively, he told us he had absolutely no idea why he was crying other than he "felt weird" and he "can't control it". I get like that with anesthesia as well, and told him about the time I came out of twilight sleep at the dentist and cried hysterically while thanking the hygienist over and over again for filling my cavities. He thought that was pretty hilarious, and the jokes seemed to help him get his head clear (along with several popsicles).
His entire "surgery" hand was bandaged up from wrist to fingertips, and the other one was half-bandaged to hold the IV in place, which he absolutely hated because it made it nearly impossible for him to play on Curtis' iPod. But at least he didn't seem to be in any pain, in fact he said it wasn't even uncomfortable. They told us later they'd given him morphine, so I was surprised at how clear-headed he was. Maybe he doesn't just have my anesthesia tolerance, but also my narcotic tolerance too. I mean other than the brief moment of anesthesia weeps, he was totally normal even on a large dose of morphine.

Sitting in recovery playing on Curtis' phone

Just before we left they gave us a capped syringe of children's Tylenol for him to take once the morphine wore off, and said we could give it to him an hour, or whenever he complained of discomfort. We didn't wait, and gave it to him exactly an hour after leaving. He never did mention any pain. I mean not even for the entire rest of the day, nor did he wake up during the night. He was totally fine on the one dose of Children's Tylenol. This is a pretty big deal, because Xan is a ridiculous drama queen when it comes to discomfort (or anything even remotely unpleasant, really) and if there was even the slightest twinge we'd hear about it, at extremely high decibels, for hours.

We were told to leave all the gauze in place for 48 hours before changing the bandages, but I ended up having to change it the following evening after he was out playing and got really dirty - I was afraid he'd get a bunch of crap in his stitches and it would get infected or something. As I unrolled the gauze he turned away and said, "If I breathe very slow it won't hurt as much."
"That's a good idea, Xan: keep breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth," I told him.
He winced when I took the last of the bandages off, but it merely the anticipation of pain, once it all came off he opened up an eye and expressed his surprise that it didn't hurt at all. I dabbed at it with some "hurt free" wound cleanser stuff to get the dried blood cleaned off so I could make sure there was no actual dirt in there (thankfully, there wasn't) and he kept craning his neck back and forth hoping to catch a glimpse of the stitches as the cotton ball lifted.
"Do you want to see?" I asked.
There was a brief pause before his enthusiastic answer, like he wasn't sure if that was even allowed. "… Sure!"
I finished cleaning the wound and let go of his hand so he could inspect it: it looked like the surgeon had cut a partial triangle into the inside of his knuckle and just peeled the skin back to get at the lump, then stitched it back in place. The stitches were sticking out all over the place and looked totally creepy, but Xan loved it. We could also see the faint blue marks from where they drew a circle around what was once the lump - he was fascinated by this, because it was totally flat inside the circle so it was easy to see the 'before and after' of the procedure. Tempest poked her head into the bathroom about this point after she heard Xan's oohs and ahhs. He eagerly shoved his hand into her face to show her the sheer awesomeness, only to have her turn white as a sheet before covering her face and running away. She has never done too well with blood…

It's been a few days now and other than the site being slightly tender the following afternoon, he hasn't complained and doesn't even ask for Tylenol. He's down to just a normal band-aid (with antibiotic cream) changed twice a day and other than the few minutes we spend giving him a new one, he doesn't even seem to notice it's there He can pull his hand into a good fist for the first time in ages (the lump wasn't that big but was enough to impede this) and can hang on bars or climb on the playground without any discomfort with that lump being in the way, so he's pretty stoked.

Seriously, I wish I could be that cool about surgery and hospitals and shit. I went in for a cortisone shot in my spine a day or two prior and once again it took 25 minutes to get the damn shit over with because I had to lie on the bed shaking and crying and trying desperately not to faint while the my GP sympathetically apologized and tried to go as slow as possible. It took me a few minutes of time to calm down enough to leave, and my doctor actually stayed to keep me company, which was very sweet.
"Does the site hurt you right now?"
"No," I told him. "It's just a bit uncomfortable. Sorry, I'm just not great with needles."
"It's fine, you're like me: I'm sensitive to them too."
"I've had four kids and I still can't deal with a shot."
He patted my knee. "That just means you'd make a terrible heroin addict."
My mom watched the kids while I went over for the shot, and when I limped back home she told me I was absolutely white and begged me to go lay down and take a nap while she babysat. I didn't… I had too much to do, but she stayed for an extra two hours just to make sure I was okay. That's how bad I looked. And that's just for one shot. Xan's hospital skills are clearly superior.

Tempest has been seeming so much more grown up lately; she's generally calmer and more in control of herself, she's expanding her interests and her vocabulary and is showing so much more responsibility than she was before. But, she's only 9 (ten next month. Jesus) and is in this weird limbo phase of life where she's not a small child and not yet a teenager and within this limbo I have no idea how to bring up certain topics with her. Things like sexual health, sexual debuts and freedom, drug use in a realistic and safe manner… where's the line between pre-teen and not-yet-a-teen where she is receptive to these things and it's not totally out of her world? We've been really open about bodies and sex education since the get-go, but there are obviously parts of that education that need to wait until they're more receptive, or mature, and the ideas have some bit of context for them. I may get hate mail for this, but there's a difference between talking to your 4 year old about masturbation and talking to your 4 year old about their sexual debut and understanding the roots of slut shaming and rape culture.
For now all I can do is just keep these topics close and introduce them slowly through other, more recognizable concepts (like not patting our bums without permission and stopping tickling when someone says 'stop' even if they say 'go' a second later) but it's one of these frustrating aspects of parenting where you're never entirely sure where that line in the sand is located.

She's also so completely gorgeous and it makes me all teary and wistful when I look at her and see this willowy, lanky girl that I never was and always wanted to be who is turning into this amazingly beautiful young woman and I don't want to give her this 'looks are everything' complex but I also kind of want to shower her with compliments and make her know she's gorgeous to us. Things like this are weirdly uncomfortable.
She also seems to have a total disconnect about her appearance that I think is probably a good thing in the long run. By her age I was terribly self-conscious of how I appeared to other people, and she really doesn't seem to notice or care if she looks awkward or strange. For instance, she has a really modest two-piece tankini that otherwise appears as a one piece (because I hate bikinis on girls and she'd outgrown her swimsuit, and that was the only one I could find at the time) but the fabric in the bottom piece is all loose on the outside even though the inner fabric fits well. So when she runs it forms this totally bizarre looking flap at her butt that looks like a saggy diaper. It drives me crazy and I'm always trying to tuck it in or pin it and she really doesn't seem to even notice this is odd. She went through a brief phase of being super body conscious while naked, and that seems to have mostly passed now (I'm allowed to be in the bathroom with her while she's showering and she doesn't freak). On the other hand, she's become more 'fashion' aware and tries combinations of clothes with a purpose of looking interesting or mimicking a certain style, so it's like this particular section of maturity goes only one way and not the other. Like I said, this is probably a good thing - I mean the less needlessly self-conscious she is, the better for her - but it's also kind of weird because I'm so used to the negative and positive sides of body awareness all coming together at the same time.

She graduated from her figure skating club that she was accepted in some weeks back, and came out with a 100% perfect. I am so amazingly proud of her for this. Her physical ability and control over her gross motor skills has improved in a huge, huge way since enrolling and it's been so awesome for her. Her confidence is better, her social skills are better, she has way more control of her body and is less clumsy and awkward… it's amazing what being really, naturally good at something does for you. Everyone was encouraging and lovely throughout her course, and the teacher was continually impressed with her ability to pick things up so quickly and go to work. He said all he had to do was show her once and she'd go off and work and work and work and work until she was perfect, sometimes through the entire class. And that little shy-but-coy smile after knowing she had succeeded was so awesome to see.

It makes me really wish we had more access to sports, athletics or community programs, but they're generally so ridiculously expensive that it's completely outside our universe. As Tina said in an entry of hers a few months back, even "free" programs cost money.

About two weeks went by after we won court before Landlady struck back, by giving us a notice that she was going to raise our rent by the maximum amount she can, while giving us the minimum notice possible. I can't tell if she's that petty or if she's attempting to passive-aggressively drive us out, even though we told her that we plan on moving once we can find a place that we can actually move in to.
She didn't even mail it to us or hand it to us or anything, she just left it on our doorstep with no letter or anything attached. She's like the queen of passive-aggressive ridiculousness.

The lawnmower broke down while Curtis was trying to mow the lawn a few days ago, the lawnmower that she gave us a few months ago with the wheels falling off (we had to go to Home Depot to buy screws to fix it) but she claimed was 'brand new' in the court documents. Curtis called the number on the mower to see if this was a known issue, and it was disconnected. So he did a Google search and found that the model was 6 years old and had been discontinued for almost as long because of failing motor problems. He gave her a call regarding this, suspecting that she may drag her heels on it as it's in our rental agreement to mow the lawn regularly (and if she drags too far she might try to freak about it) and she wouldn't answer he cell so he left a message there, and one on her home phone just in case. She showed up at the house without warning 3 days later and said she'd mow our lawn for us; she was polite and cordial. I thanked her and let her go, and she came back to the front door about 5 minutes later yelling at me about how pissed she was that Curtis left her more than one message for "four inches of grass" (meaning, there was about 5-7 feet of un-mowed section that he wasn't able to get).
I just kept saying, "Ok" calmly until she finished, then she walked back into the backyard and I shut the door.
She came back to the door another 5 minutes later, this time once again polite and cordial, asking for me to help her plug in the weedwhacker through Tempest's bedroom window and said that the lawnmower was "way too old and not enough to bother replacing" and promised she'd, "Just buy you a new one" soon.
Another 5 minutes went by and she came back and yelled about how she "knew" we hadn't actually mowed in 3 weeks because "I do drive-bys!" (it's actually only been 1.5 weeks). Then she very dramatically took a manilla envelope out of her car, glared at me, and walked down the street with it. I did not see her again.

For the record, we did not at any point ask her to mow the lawn for us… Curtis just asked her to get back to us regarding the broken lawnmower.

I just. What. She was seriously the most mundane and generally normal landlady ever for the six years prior to this. I have no idea what just happened here that made her freak out.
Curtis wants to write her a letter (so we have documentation) asking her to actually do the maintenance on the house that she's supposed to, like fix the upstairs plumbing that we've been trying to get her to fix for 8+ months… and fix all the downstairs windows in the living room which have become "unstuck" (they're made really weirdly and the sliding mechanisms stick to the insides of the frame with these sticky pads) due to heat and humidity over the years. About half of them haven't been able to open properly in 2 years, the other half are getting there. Both issues she promised to look at, or fix, and then just didn't. The windows we mentioned once the next year and then not again because it wasn't that big a deal, but the plumbing we mentioned regularly. If we don't document this I know she's going to try and make us pay for this stuff when we move out, which is stupid because it's her job to do the maintenance when we ask her about it. That was even something she literally brought to court as reason to evict: calls for plumbing or minor repairs. The arbitrator practically laughed at her for it, which is what we did too, but I guess she seriously believes it's not her job? I don't know man, I'm beginning to think she's never had long term tenants before and just has no idea what it means to have 5 people living in a home for 6+ years.
When we moved in she told us the previous tenants had left the place in "horrible" condition after living here 9 years, but we ended up getting to know them (they moved across the street and bought the corner store there to run it for quite a few years) and they really did not seem like that type. Their store was always very clean, and so was their home… and now I really seriously doubt it was bad at all; it was probably just normal "After 9 years" wear and tear from family living. During our court her argument was that the place didn't look exactly as it did on the day she finished "renovating" it 6.5 years ago, before we moved in, and it would require her to do some work to return it that way.

Well, yeah?… That's generally what you do between long term (or short term, really) tenants. Paint and do the general maintenance… right? I mean, the friends that I have who have been landlords have all talked about this. All the places we've ever rented have been renovated and/or painted prior to us moving in, generally between any and all tenant changes. Isn't this how shit normally goes down? I don't know dude, she's getting to be a strange one. The evidence she submitted about this work was stuff like scratches on a cheap ass bathroom vanity (which she asked about $400 to "replace") and a picture of a burned out lightbulb (which she asked for something like $120 to "replace fixture").

Meanwhile we still search for rentals, co-ops and other housing options. It's bleak. We found an awesomely cute place very close to this house… for $2200 a month. It was listed as a "2+ bedroom" only. And that's not even that expensive! Ugh. I love this city, but sometimes I hate this city too.

LOADS OF PICTURES!

Xan's school had an end of the year BBQ thing that we went to, and was a lot of fun except for the part where they ran out of food before we arrived even though they had everyone write down orders a week prior so that wouldn't happen. THAT SAID they did find a solution and we cut up some hot dog buns for burgers, so at least we got dinner. The kids ran around being crazy with other crazy kids for two hours and it was really nice. There's such a huge difference between the parents there, and the parents at Tempest's school; it's just so much more comfortable to be around them.

I actually dragged my camera along to this event because Curtis had the night off and was able to be with me, meaning I could relax somewhat.

Tempest, on the way up to the school.

We call this the 'autism smile', and see it in 80% of the pictures of her.

If I'm super lucky I can catch her off guard and get something like this, but it's rare.

When I do get it, it's always wonderful and I sit staring at these pictures sighing wistfully about how big and gorgeous she is.

Zephyra at the BBQ, playing with a traffic cone.

Curtis was swinging with her, but as soon as she demanded he join her she got off.

In the stroller before we left, yelling at me about my camera usage.

I was sneaky and got this image of Xan while he was waiting in line to get his face-painted, and had briefly stepped out to do his stand-up routine for the other kids.

He then acted mockingly offended when I tried to get more images, and refused to cooperate. In frustration I told him that one day he's going to be really mad when his sisters have beautiful pictures of them and he has nothing. NONE. Reluctantly he agreed this was probably true, and allowed me to take one staged photo of him. But only on the slide.

Xan getting his face done. One of his classmates came up randomly to help hold his hair back. It was very sweet.

Xan's finished face paint, some sort of tiger.

Tempest and Xan really wanted to show my mom their face paint from the BBQ, but it was too late to stop by her place and they needed to wash it off before they went to bed. This was enough motivation for them to actually sit in the yard and pose together, nicely, for a picture. Amazing because they never do this anymore.

This first attempt made Xan really pissed.

Then they agreed to this one, which I will get a print of...

… in exchange for these ones.

CRAFTING!
I to give a unique and personal gift to Xan's teacher at the end of the year after how much she's done for him, so I decided to make her a little mini-me doll. She goes by "Miss J" because her last name is French and difficult to remember/pronounce for most little kids who are not in immersion, and there's none in this school.

This was originally posted on Tumblr, so in case you missed it here's the summary and stats on this project.

Mrs. J was Xan’s teacher this year and she’s made a huge impact on his life; his confidence and self-esteem have absolutely soared. After the terrible experience with bullying and generally awful, uncaring staff at the previous school, this new school was like heaven. He’s made such amazing improvements: his anxiety, his aggression and his tendency to act out in really extreme and negative ways have all but disappeared over the course of the year. Not only that, but for the first time in his life he really believes he’s a smart and good kid - whereas the staff at the previous school told him he was a “bad" kid on a near daily basis throughout his Kindergarten year. They also told him that he deserved the bullying he received due to his love of pink, and the fact that he frequently wore pink shirts or shoes to school and carried a pink backpack. He was FOUR YEARS OLD when he first entered Kindergarten there. Four - and they were telling him he deserved to be called a “f*ggot" by the older kids.

Mrs. J is that perfect kind of teacher: not the super permissive “kids are magic and I’m better than their parents" type, not an authoritarian nightmare, nor at all neglectful. She’s real: she encourages kids, she’s approachable, she has a good sense of humour, she understands individual limitations and needs, she takes time to know every kid’s family, the names of their siblings and their history (she even remembered Jericho’s birthday and took time to ask Xan about his brother after knowing that we make a big deal to remember and celebrate him) and she takes no shit from the kids and never gets walked over. She’s super awesome, and it’s because of her that we’ve seen so much improvement.

Mrs. J teaches the split of Kindergarten and grade one, so he won’t be with her next year and will go on to the grade 2/3 class with a new teacher. We won’t get to be with her again until baby Z enrolls in school in a few years… so I wanted to give her something special to say how much we love her.

STATS:
"Little Mrs. J" is based loosely on Owlishly’s [ "Naomi the Bear" ] pattern, but is obviously very heavily modified (including a bit of experimenting to try making a bit of a ‘breast’ shape, similar to the curvy bum shape that the pattern includes).
I used [ this Waldorf doll hair tutorial ] I found on Pinterest using two different weights/colours of grey yarn for a ‘salt and pepper’ effect for her hair.
[ This ‘Blythe’ doll sweater pattern ] was used for the coat and heavily modified (made the back into the front, changed the collar some, added two belt loops and crocheted a waistband tie thing, then finished with a blue snap to match the doll’s light blue ‘undershirt’).
The earrings are real, and can be taken off the doll and worn; they’re made with 22g silver wire and glass and amber beads, iirc.
The glasses are made with 16g silver wire and secured in place by sticking the arms into the sides of the head, hidden behind the hair, and then sewn into place.

The Ravelry page for the doll is [ here ] if anyone’s a member there. The whole thing took me about five days to complete, though I made the head on the 13th and then the project sat for like a week so I guess that’s technically 12 days.

And a few random pictures from the weeks prior:

Curtis took a photo of me off my Facebook and has used it as his iPhone background and locking screen for the last several months (nowadays its a picture of Xan and Tempest). Every time he would turn on his phone near the baby, she would freak and grabs at it because it's a picture of me. If he left it out somewhere, and she saw it, she'd come running over and play with it to pull up the picture. She hated it when the phone would go to sleep while she was cooing at it, but eventually realized that if she pushed a bunch of buttons it would stay on for longer. We'd constantly hear Siri's "What do you need?" prompt from her holding down the home button when she did this, and that got kind of obnoxious. We didn't realize it, but she was also accidentally taking screen captures every time she got ahold of the phone to peek at the photo. Neither of us figured this out until about a month later when I went into Curtis' camera roll to look for an image he'd taken and saw like five pages of this :

A favourite of the girls (!) at the park the other day, from my iPhone.

They tend to stick together a lot lately.

The kids sitting together at dinner watching Minecraft music videos. This is like the only way they get along lately.

Nursey girl. She actually asked me to take this, and then started going, "SEE! SEE!" wanting to look at the image of herself nursing, while she nursed.

Watching Pingu on my computer.

This one would normally be deleted, but I kept it because of how much she resembles Xan here.

At this point she did this for every photo I took and I was forced to stop.

But at least I got one really nice one.

Interesting note: she's the only one in this family who does not have green eyes. Her eyes are usually a blueish shade, but occasionally appear a light green in certain environments. Tempest had bright blue eyes as a little baby, but they were green by this point I'm pretty sure. I keep wondering if she'll ever lose the blue, or if she'll be the odd one out in her own special way (Tempest and Xan often joke that every kid was an odd one out and possess a feature that no one else in the family does: Tempest with her red hair, Jericho for his pure black hair/eyes, Xan because of his dark skin tone, and maybe Zephyra for her blue eyes).

Video of the Day:
Zephyra followed me into the garage while I was doing laundry the other day and saw her old bouncy chair. She dragged it back out into the living room, and did this for the next hour and a half.

Xanism of the Day:
While walking him home the week before the final week of school, I received a phone call from the surgeon about his prep and various info. As soon as I picked up I heard what sounded like singing, so I plugged my other ear and turned away to try and focus. Pretty soon it was too loud to ignore. This guy on a mobility scooter was coming down the other side of the street, singing Bohemian Rhapsody at the top of his lungs. He didn't sound, nor appear to be, drunk or on drugs in any way… he was just getting down with his bad self. Xan said nothing, but watched him as he passed. I hung up the phone just as he left my field of vision.
"Did you see that? That was kind of weird," I said to Xan, nodding in the direction of the guy.
Xan gazed wistfully in the direction he went and answered, "Some people are just born to sing".

Conversations of the Day:
Occasionally a text conversation between Curtis and I makes me laugh hard enough to warrant screen captures.

#1 Context: When Curtis is biking or driving he uses a headset to speak to the phone and read out my responses so he doesn't have to ever touch it or look at it, and Siri has voice recognition software that transcribes everything he says… about 95% of the time. This was from the day he tried to take his bike up to the repair place, and tried to tell me how much money he took out of the account for the bill (it was $40).

#2 Context: I was bitching about going on a walk to Safeway for groceries at night, and was sarcastic and dramatic about how long it would take because I was going so incredibly far (it's a 5 minute walk). Curtis started teasing me about being such a baby and talking like I wouldn't be back for weeks.

#3 Context: None required.

Links of the Day:
Bill and John: More than ever - A really touching and beautiful story of the 54-year love affair between two men. This is why marriage equality matters.
Calgary mayor gives redundant message over thrill-seekers following the devastating flood - "I can't believe I actually have to say this, but I'm going to say it. The river is closed. You cannot boat on the river. I have a large number of nouns that I can use to describe the people I saw in a canoe on the Bow river today. I am not allowed to use any of them. I can tell you, however, that I have been told that despite the state of local emergency, I'm not allowed to invoke the Darwin law." Canada, everyone.
Useless box with surprises - Ever seen one of those self-terminating boxes? Where you flick the on switch and it opens up, and a lever comes out and turns itself off? This guy made one with a few twists.
People with down syndrome can be jerks, too - This is a really wonderful, well written article about the author's amazing aunt. And how vital it is to treat people with intellectual disabilities as real people, and not just puppies and kittens and perpetual babies.
The girl in the window - The story of a child so severely neglected by her mother that she was feral; found in horrible, horrible conditions. This isn't "over there" decades ago, this is Florida in like 2007 or something. This is a pretty emotional read, but it does have a happy ending of how she came to find a family who truly loves her. Stories like this make me so horrified, and simultaneously make me want to get into foster care even with my physical limitations, in hopes we could be a safe haven for someone for even a little bit.
The comment section for every article about bikini waxing ever - Every comment ever said by anyone ever about the subject of bikini waxing, the abridged version.

On being in pain

babyslime — Sun, 23 Jun 2013 03:47:01 GMT

Everything's been really up and down, and it's hard to sit down and want to write about it without either feeling like I'm putting on a happy face or whining endlessly. Curtis' promotion was awesome, but not at all what we were expecting. We talked about it for weeks prior to him accepting it, and went forward on the belief that the extra money he would bring in would outweigh his absence… without him here it's difficult for me, and not just because it's three kids and I'm lonely, but because I have a disability and chronic pain and I run down a lot faster. Much, much faster. The extra money would help me manage my time and spoons better; allowing for easier meals with less prep, putting the kids in extra circulars to help manage their energy…
But none of that can happen. I feel a little like I was lied to - not by Curtis, but just by the job itself. In the end the amount of extra money he's bringing in per month is roughly $82, and his hours jumped from 7-8 predictable hours a day to working 10-14 hours a day and never being able to see him at all. The kids see him 15 minutes in the morning when he gets them up just before getting me up, and I see him about 2 hours at night after their bedtime when we're both exhausted and heading to bed. That's not enough for me. That's fucking awful. That's not worth this for $82 fucking dollars. We can't do shit with $82 and a 500% increase on my physical and mental demand.
It's put us just a hair outside of the tax bracket that gave us the full benefits, which means we now make something like $100 less monthly than we used to, and in the end that means this promotion has lost the household money. So I practically never see my husband anymore except on Saturday (his new day off, which is spent largely being zombies because we're both so fucking tired) and we're poorer than we were before. That isn't what I signed up for, and sometimes when I'm really overwhelmed the future feels really hopeless.
Getting a part-time job isn't as easy for me as it would be for others. For one, no one wants to hire someone who is disabled and can't do shit (lift, stand, move around for more than 20 minute stretches, etc), I have limited access to transportation and the cost of commuting has to be less than what I'd make to offset it. Daycare centres in this city are so extremely overwhelmed that it takes, on average, 8-15 months to get an opening for a young child unless you're lucky enough to have friends who can swap childcare with you (I don't - all of my good friends don't live in the city). If you go with "unregistered" daycare (like some woman running it out of her home) the subsidy for low income families only covers a portion of it, and what's leftover to pay comes to just about the same amount of money you'd make at a part time minimum wage job. So you'd go through all that fucking stress, I'd put my body through absolute hell, have to up my pain med dose and deal with the fallout of running myself ragged, and bring home about $20 a month to show for it.

Would you do it?

I've had Z on wait lists for daycares for over a year now (roughly 10 of them). I received one call back roughly 3 months ago asking me if I wanted to stay on the list for next year or be removed. So really, "go find work" is not as fucking easy as people wish it was.

It's depressing because my pain is already getting worse just from the increased demand from Curtis' work schedule. The progress is slow, but it's noticeable. Even back when I was pregnant I used to be able to walk up to the mall in the summertime: a 30+ minute walk there and back, and only need one dose of breakthrough meds and a two hour recuperation period to get through it. Now I can barely walk to the library and back (15 minutes) without being in agony for the next 6 hours. I tried to talk about it with my specialist a few visits ago, and his response was a very depressing, "That tends to happen" or something similar. Thanks, man… that's just the boost I needed. These last two weeks the nerve pain in my leg has come back, to the point where I've scheduled another cortisone shot in my spine for this Monday (the ones that I faint over, some readers may recall - that's always fun). My next option for treatment is biologics, but they range anywhere from 10 to 40 THOUSAND DOLLARS a year, and while our medical plan is pretty good it doesn't cover 100% of those kinds of treatments. And seriously, we couldn't in a million years be able to cover even 10% of $40'000. That's fucking insane. Biologics don't cure the disease, but they can put it in remission which can in turn help control some of the pain. I would still need all my pain meds, but it may help stop it from getting worse for a while. That would be amazing, but it's a world away at this point.

I ran a few days short on my pain meds two weeks ago due to the nerve acting up again, and when I called in to have my next round I got a really confusing explanation of how my prescription works because of the fucked up way my doctor wrote it out the last time.

For those who don't do this every day, this is how it works:
When you take narcotics or opiates or other "controlled substances" for disease or pain management, the BC Pharma system has a very specific way of controlling that. You never, ever get your entire prescription given to you in one go. Ever. This is for your own safety and to ensure there's less likelihood of abuse and/or selling it for those who are down that path. Your script given to you in stages over a timed period, not generally by need for it.
For instance, I have to visit my pain doctor once every six weeks for a check-up (and because of the meds I'm on, a required urine test for drug use and to ensure the drug is present in my system so I'm not selling it - it's weird but it's part of the rules, my mom has to do it to as she's on the same treatment for the same disease) and at this check-up I get my prescriptions refreshed. I bring them in and they automatically overwrite any remaining leftovers from the last one (for instance, if I only got 2 out of 3 of my breakthrough meds in the last 6 weeks, that third fill goes away in a puff of smoke and gets overwritten by the new script). I was previously under the impression that because my breakthrough meds are split into three equal parts, I can get them refilled once every two weeks (2+2+2=6, for the 6 week visits)… but learned that's not actually the case. My doctor has been mistakenly writing it out as "1 tablet 2x per day" rather than my actual dose, which is 2-3 pills as needed (not generally on a daily basis, just as needed). So, because of this, they will only push the 1/3 of the script once every 25 days. 25+25+25=75 days, which is 10 weeks… this does not equal six weeks, which means there's no way I can actually receive my entire prescription during the time I have been allotted for it.

What the fuck?

Generally this hasn't been a problem. I've gone about 3 years and run short literally once. During that time I'd never, ever get my doses given at two week intervals (I'd call them in as needed once I ran out/low) and usually had so much left over that I didn't even get my last 1/3 filled before my six weeks was up. I just didn't need it that often, and despite how it's written, I never take my breakthrough meds on a daily basis because it's too easy to build a tolerance and that would make it useless.
But… the last year or so my disease has progressed significantly; much more than it has over the last many years combined, something both my pain specialist and rheumatologist have commented on. There isn't really anything we can do about it… sometimes that happens despite your best intentions. But this means I go through more breakthrough meds than I used to due to dramatically increased pain, so in the last 6 months I've run short about 3 or 4 times (meaning, I needed it refilled at a 2-3 week interval instead of 3+ weeks). My pharmacy is amazing and care a lot for their patients, and in cases like that they often do things like pull 10 from the next partial and tack it on to the last one to help a patient get through a weekend until they can see their doctor or something, but I really need to talk with my pain doctor about the way he writes this shit out because it's total crap. He's given me a supply that he believes will help me and then writes it in a way that I literally can't use it as intended. Seriously what the fuck.
So then I'm left running on constant anxiety attacks because I count how many I have left, see that it's 15 or so, and freak the fuck out because I'm in excruciating pain and don't want to take anything for it because I'm afraid of running out "too early" and being left with nothing. Either I can treat the pain appropriately and run completely out in 2-3 days - meaning either the pain burst is treated properly and gets under control, or the pain burst is not treatable and continues past that point - or I can treat the pain half-assedly and be unable to do shit for the next 1-2 weeks, live in constant agony, without sleep, can't eat properly, can't take care of my house or play with my kids properly, but at least I didn't run out too early!
This is the kind of shit you have to think about every fucking day when you live with a disease and suffer with pain, because taking medication is so stigmatized that it isn't as easy as just asking for more. Even if my specialist understands (which, generally he has) I am trying to crawl out from under this immense societal pressure that I've swallowed over years of this that says I cannot take medication or else I'm a junkie. If I need an increased dose, that's bad. If I take what I need to take care of myself, that's bad. It's better to live in pain and watch your entire life fall apart around you in misery and horrific, nightmarish agony than to medicate appropriately and safely. It isn't as easy as simply knowing that isn't true; when you've swallowed that bullshit for so long, it's hard to give it up even when your life very literally depends on it.

Living in constant pain is horrific. It tears away at every shred of happiness you have, it seeps into every activity you do over your day from taking a shower to preparing a meal. It pulls at you when you try and play with your kids, when you smile and laugh, when you make plans and break promises. You see it in your children's faces when you have to give them another "no" when they ask to sit out in the front yard with you, because you don't know if you can get up and down the stairs or sit on the ground for even 10 minutes without suffering enough to not be able to withstand making dinner that night or getting up tomorrow morning and getting them to school. And every time you reach for the medication you've been told, ordered, begged and pleaded with to take when you need to so you can bring your quality of life up to a "barely livable" level for a few hours you've got a crowd of people circling you like vultures telling you how much of a fucking junkie you are if you do it. Like it's "giving in"; being weak or pathetic to treat your disease and be a human being for a few hours.
Sometimes the whole thing just wears you down, and the armour you've spent so many years crafting feels as thin and useless as cobwebs.

Tonight it hurts, just as it's hurt for a week or more. I've lost track of how many days my leg has been on fire. My (general, not specialist) doctor told me to call immediately if I ever needed another shot and he'd fit me in, but his secretary pushed it for four more days because it was easier for her, and I'm so worn down that I didn't fight. I don't know if I have enough breakthrough meds to get through four more days plus the additional 3 that it takes for the cortisone to start to work… but it doesn't really matter, does it? So instead I take another handful of medication (2-3 maximum strength robaxacet, 2 maximum strength tylenol, 2 maximum strength ibuprofen, 1 of my breakthroughs even though I'm supposed to take 2-3 = a goddamn handful that does jack shit for this level of pain, but hey at least I'm not crying in a corner all night) and wash it down with some gin and hope to god it gets under control enough to get up tomorrow and walk the kids to school.
But hey it's all cool because I'm just a junkie who takes pills for fun. Because this is such a fucking great time.

Ten types of kids at playgrounds

babyslime — Tue, 18 Jun 2013 07:09:45 GMT

I don't generally do joke posts, but I've been laughing about this phenomenon with Curtis for a while and finally figured I'd write it up. We've been enjoying the warmer weather these last few weeks, which means more frequent visits to the park and "water pad" (a playground that has little water shoots and such, which are only available during the summer season). I have to constantly be on Z's heels all through the visit as she tends to rocket from one thing to the next, barrelling her way through all the toys with little to no regard for other kids or her own safety (seriously what is it about toddlers and running directly into the path of the highest-swinging swing with the largest kid on it? It's like they have a concussion death wish or something).

A few evenings ago we went quite late in the day and it was surprisingly crowded for a dinnertime visit; usually by that point in the day the populace has dwindled down to a few stragglers made up by exhausted-looking parents who have no time to cook a proper dinner and have gone out with a box of fries and thrown their kids into the nearest park in hopes of having five minutes to sit down in peace (no judgement here, as we were doing the same thing). But this was insane for that hour: I mean the line-up for the swing was like ten minutes long.
Anyway, as I followed my zooming toddler around the playground that evening and completely lost track of my elder two, I kept noticing that the kids and/or parents at the playground always seemed to be the same kind of kids and parents no matter where we went or what time of day we went there. It's like every playground ever is always populated by these sets of parent and child archetypes. And it's practically universal: even when we lived way up North in hick town we ran into the same thing, so it seems this may be the case no matter where you're from. Three kids worth of playground experiences have shown that people very rarely stray too far from these blatantly unfair generalizations, so I thought I'd share them with you guys. And don't worry, I happily include myself in many of these categories over my parenting career, so this is written completely tongue-in-cheek with a healthy side of self-deprecating humour. With that I bring you, The Ten Types of Kids (and parents) at Playgrounds. (I figured ten was a nice round number).

The Only Child
There are two subtypes to this that sometimes overlap, the first is the Celebrity Look-Alike: if a girl, she's dressed to the nines right down her spit-shined Mary Jane shoes dotted with rhinestones; if a boy he's looking like he could star in a Calvin Klein ad in his pressed button-down with matching sport jacket. Mom has probably shelled out hundreds (or thousands) of dollars so that little Beckham or Madison could be mistaken as a contender in People Magazine's "Best dressed celebrity babies" edition by being swathed in the most completely inappropriate clothes for play-time. Due to the overwhelming fear that the expensive clothes will be ruined, mom is usually found right at the heels of this kid every single second of every minute that they're running about to ensure they don't scuff their shoes, trip in the mud or wipe their hands on their shirt. This kid stares longingly at The Hippie and would rather be naked they had the choice, but their parent is strongly at odds with that type because, really, what three year old would be caught dead in Osh Kosh these days?
The second subtype is The Helicopter. This type believes their child made of the finest China, hand-crafted by endangered otters who receive daily Thai massages while being hand-fed whale caviar from polished oyster shells. This child can do no wrong (or anything fun, for that matter). Any disagreement is automatically the other kid's fault, every scrape results in a 911 call, and every aspect of typical play is probably too dangerous for this special snowflake to participate in. They're never allowed to climb higher than 24 inches (what if they fell and broke their neck!?), would never receive an underduck on the swing (what if they fell off!?), and can't ever go twosies on the tire-swing (what if the two kids' heads collided and my ickle bebe has a stroke and dies!?). Mom has a fully equipped first aid kit in her purse, is dressed immaculately and is judging you.

Secret Lovers
A single glance across the playground and they knew: it was love. Two (or three) kids generally between the ages of 2.5 and 6 who are found cuddled under the slide or hiding in a bush; rubbing noses, giggling quietly, stealing kisses and gingerly peeling off each other's clothes while they stare lovingly into each other's eyes until their horrified parents finally locate and separate them. Flings last anywhere from 3 to 15 minutes and are between kids of the same sex 90% of the time.

The Mob Boss
Usually one of the oldest, if not the oldest child on the playground and almost certainly too big to be bogarting the baby swings. She's usually found camped out on the highest hill or the tallest structure, charging admission for time on all the best toys. No one does anything without her permission, and God have mercy on your soul if you cross her. From the moment she sets foot on the playground she somehow manages to amass a loyal following of lackeys who will ensure that all other kids fall in line, and while she doesn't actually participate in any fights or directly cause disagreements herself (she has kids to do that for her), there always seems to be drama surrounding her. Trying to alert her parent to any problems with her is a lost cause because she's a perfect angel in their eyes.
Almost always an Only Child but sometimes the result of rebellion after years of being Drill Sergeant/The Solder.

Third or More
Does this kid look like he was clothed by a blind man working in the back of Value Village? Is she coated in a thick layer of mud and grass? Has his hair not been brushed or combed in days, and appears to be the result of an unfortunate incident with safety scissors? This is most definitely a Third or More. This kid is the youngest of several older siblings and is running around completely unattended while mom hopes to steal her only few minutes of sleep in the last 3 days. Her parents are long past the idealistic vision of of having a sparkling clean, well-dressed and obedient child and really are only here for the break in chaos it may award them. This kid can really take a punch and is rarely even intimidated by The Mob Boss; she probably has elder siblings much, much scarier and younger ones at least ten times as annoying. She is filthy, sneaky and gets into ridiculous amounts of trouble, but I'll be damned if she isn't one of the happiest kids there. Sometimes crosses over into The Opportunist if mom forgot to feed her that day.

The Hippie
Dressed in recycled hemp and organic bamboo, barefoot, tanned and often found carrying a crocheted bag of Annie's bunny snacks. They get as dirty as the Third or More, climb as high as the Spiderman and will happily enjoy play with just about everyone short of the Only Child, for whom their parent has too much pity or righteous anger about for their child to so much as breathe the same air. Despite being decked out in only the highest quality knitwear you can find on Etsy, mom is usually found too absorbed in her game of Draw Something to notice whether or not their child has strayed into the Drill Sergeant's radar. They smell faintly of nag champa and marijuana. Will become The Opportunist if they realize your child is carrying anything made with wheat, dairy or refined sugar. The parent of this child is the natural enemy of the Drill Sergeant.

The Opportunist
Only found on busy days, this kid flits from blanket to blanket, approaching parents and kids who are picnicking or have brought along snacks. He is a master of cuteness and often displays an extraordinary level of politeness that his parents will never witness as long as they live. Unless you are heartless or blind, he will probably scam you out of most of your food. Over the course of his stay he'll make two or three complete rounds of the park, returning several times to the blankets that won him particularly tasty morsels. Much like Yogi bear, they have a strong inclination to steal pic-a-nic baskets. Do not leave your food unattended for even a second, or you will never see it again.
Don't confuse this hunger with neglect: they've probably eaten their weight in goldfish crackers by lunch time and their parent has brought along two baskets worth of snacks. Everyone else's food is just better.

Spiderman
What's that 15 feet into the tallest tree? Who's that kid hanging upside-down by their ankles on the top rung of the monkey bars? Is it a lemur? Perhaps a capuchin/child hybrid that escaped from a nearby laboratory? No, it's Spiderman!
Their attending adult, usually a hapless babysitter, can be found walking in circles around the park, nervously asking if you've seen their child because they haven't seen them in ten minutes but they're sure the kid is just in the bathroom or something…

Drill Sergeant/The Soldier
"DON'T YOU CLIMB THAT."
"DID YOU HEAR ME?"
"DON'T TOUCH THAT."
"ONE AT A TIME."
"I WILL WHOOP YOUR BUTT IF YOU DO THAT AGAIN."
Sometimes the unfortunate progeny of a "Tiger Mom"-style single parent, but more often found with a short-statured but absolutely frightening grandmother. Not to be confused with Only Child or Helicopter; grandma isn't so much concerned with the child's welfare as much as they are concerned with whether or not the child is the most obedient kid on the planet. It's been long enough since grandma's birthing days that she's completely forgotten how kids act and has ridiculously unrealistic expectations of The Soldier, often expecting a crisp salute following her insane commands. This type is easily identifiable for their complete inability to take responsibility for accidents and incidents: instead of encouraging the kid to say 'I'm sorry', they're pulled aside and subjected to ten minutes of loud screaming followed by an order to retrieve a switch off a nearby tree. Since Drill Sergeant/Soldier sometimes spills over to hapless children who were unfortunate enough to wander by, this kid has a huge buffer zone because no other child at the playground will risk interacting with them for fear of inciting the wrath of their absolutely terrifying grandparent. Would be subject to public execution if he ever became The Opportunist.

Mad Scientist
Is that kid… okay? I mean, should she really be licking the swing-set poles like that? And I'm pretty sure that mud puddle isn't for drinking. Her finger is superglued to the inside of her nose and her mouth is permanently contorted into an unsettling grin. She possesses an disturbingly evil laugh and seems to find everything funny, especially things she can squash. She will eat caterpillars for nickels and is highly susceptible to dares. Her skirt is tucked into her underwear and she's wearing two different left shoes. Kids either adore her, or she's nightmare-fuel. Often initially confused with The Opportunist, although she's not after food...

Typhoid Mary
His breath comes in gasps and wheezes and sounds like a gravel truck trying to make it up a hill with the parking break on, he leaves a trail of green snot on every toy he touches, his cough is like a baby seal being clubbed and can be heard for miles. Probably has pertussis, tuberculosis, or the city's only case of bubonic plague in the last 57 years. Mom is usually found with heavy bags under her bloodshot eyes, staring vacantly into space, or passed out in a bench in exhaustion and far, far overdressed for the weather. This kid is usually a Third Or More, because the only way he has this many germs is if he has multiple siblings in daycare, elementary school, middle school and high school that are bringing home 570 different diseases on a daily basis. Mom may also be a teacher or flight attendant.

Just this week alone my kids have been at least half of these. If anyone else can think of more, let me know so I can ~~add them and pretend they were my idea~~ append the post with them.

Quick court update

babyslime — Fri, 07 Jun 2013 04:44:59 GMT

I couldn't possibly wait to post this, but boy did landlady ever hang herself today. While I know the arbitrator (who was a woman, and therefore seemingly far less likely to be naked in front of a computer full of pornography while on the phone) is required to stir up both parties and not come to a decision right there on the phone, she left the conversation by saying she was "Strongly leaning toward cancelling the eviction" for numerous reasons, and regardless of plans to leave in the future it would "not be in the best interest" for us to leave because we are a "family of five, and finding accommodations can be difficult". Thank god for that. So, yeah, feelin' pretty confident right now.

Curtis did the phone thing while I watched Zephyra, because I was so terrified that I thought I might either throw up or spontaneously burst into hysterical tears and neither is really conducive to a phone call court date. Curtis handles pressure and stress way, way better than I do so he took it upon himself to be the representative.
Landlady got herself an advocate, who was not actually a professional advocate (the arbitrator asked him right away where he worked, and he admitted he worked nowhere… bwa ha ha!) and yet still managed to not stick to her story and make an ass of herself over and over again. I mean really even though she's a passive aggressive weirdo, she's always struck me as someone who generally is pretty organized and has her shit together so I am legitimately surprised by her complete inability to get shit done over this. I mean, at the very least she could have stuck to her original story.
She had to be interrupted over, and over, and over (and over) to be told that random tangents she went on were not at all pertinent to the eviction/court/phone call and she needs to stick to the topic at hand. She was asked why she had no evidence of written complaints, conversations, or attempts at mediation with us over any of the alleged issues and had no response. I mean literally either silence, or variants on, "Well, uh… because".
And ten minutes into the conversation, when the second major issue came up (damages) she literally said - LITERALLY SAID - "Well, the damages aren't actually bad or extreme in any way. It's just a bunch of little stuff that's built up over time." Literally. Actually. And the arbitrator goes, "Well okay, that's off the list" and landlady's advocate desperately tries to take it back and explain that she didn't mean to say that and he swears there's thousands of dollars of work to be done to "get it up to her standards" (of which she cannot provide any evidence of, either photographic, written or spoken). The arbitrator reminded her that it's her fucking responsibility to actually answer us when we call in little things, fix them, touch them up, repair them, or ask us to take care of them… or if we're not communicative she needs to do regular inspections and walk-throughs so she can identify and fix any problems, rather then let it all sit for years and years which is exactly what she's done (though, even she seemed to initially agree that the "damages" weren't actually anything more than regular wear and tear).

When asked why she included things in the evidence packet that aren't even on her original eviction notice, or that she herself has admitted "don't matter" she responded, "I don't know".
When asked straight up, "And what did you do to help mediate or communicate these alleged problems when they came up?" she also responded, "Well, it was hard and I didn't know how" (Um… call? And then, like, talk?). The arbitrator then told her that it appeared that she did nothing, because it either didn't matter or she was saving it up, and then her first attempt to communicate any alleged problems was to serve an eviction notice years and years and years down the line. She was reminded that this, is in fact, not what you are supposed to do. NO SHIT.

Oh, and she tried to claim the carpet was two years old. TWO YEARS OLD! But had no evidence to support this. Just like literally every other claim she made against us. This is probably because the last people that were in here, who lived here 9 years, had the carpet throughout their tenancy. I know because we were friends with them until they moved away from the area a few years ago, and because landlady herself told us it was here when she took possession of the property and both units half-way through the previous people's tenancy and it was really old even then.
I just. What. I mean, I'm glad she's done this but I'm so bewildered that she couldn't even stick to her own story. She even dropped half the issues on the original list and made up new ones right there on the spot.

So, that's what you get for trying to kick people out for no fucking reason other than you wanting to renovate the place with the intent to raise the rent (which she literally, all but said verbatim, and was called on). Man oh man. What a circus. We'll hear the final statement in a matter of days or a week or something, but we're feeling pretty good right now.

babyslime — Thu, 06 Jun 2013 05:25:18 GMT

As I was walking Xan home from school yesterday, I told him that later that evening we'd be baking a cake for Zephyra's birthday.
"We will? Can I help?"
"Of course. I'll need both you and Tempest's help. We just need to decide what kind of cake to bake her."
"Aw yeah, that'll be great!" he exclaimed. A moment passed and something seemed to occur to him, "Wait. No. Screw the ingredients! Screw the baking! Let's go to the bakery and buy delicious, delicious cake there instead! You can't go wrong with delicious bakery cake for birthdays!"

Can't argue with that logic.

Sometimes the things that come out of his mouth are so hilariously insane that I legitimately feel guilty for laughing so hard, because he can't possibly realize how hilarious it is. He regularly makes up these totally bizarre jokes nowadays, usually as we're walking to or from school. Like the one he told me this afternoon, "Why did the poodle cross the road?"
"Why?"
"Because it wanted to be a…" dramatic pause, as he literally - I shit you not - literally shifts his shades down his nose so he can peek over them as he delivers the punchline, "--cock-a-poodle-doo!"
Or he talks to me about the absolutely insane plans and stories that he usually hatches with his best friend Isabelle, who is a year younger than him. They are inseparable. This week's plan is to dig to China in the school sandbox, except they ran into this problem while mapping it out: the core of the Earth is too hard to dig through, and possibly made of diamonds. He knows, from playing Minecraft, that nothing is harder than diamonds. So today he sat me down and let me in on their updated plan to dig up to the molten layer above the core, take a sharp turn to the right, come out at Argentina, then travel to the right approximately 10'000 miles and start digging again.
"This," he explained, "Would ensure we'd go around the core and avoid that whole super hard magnetism stuff entirely. It's too much of a hassle and we don't exactly have years to do this."
He also assured me that if he waited long enough, science would invent machines to do everything for him, and in the event of mechanized travel through the core of the Earth he would be sure to bring me back diamonds to "Decorate the house with".
I told him that people don't decorate their homes with diamonds.
"Well, what do they do with them then?"
"They usually wear them, like jewelry."
"Well that's stupid."

I took him to the eye doctor today; he's the last person in the family to get an appointment with the specialist. Glaucoma runs in my family very heavily, and everyone except my dad and Marika wear glasses so we've made a point of having the kids checked. Tempest has very mild astigmatism, but not enough to require a prescription, and the following year it actually improved so we're not worried. Xan is apparently the odd one out with mild far-sightedness. Literally everyone else is near-sighted, including my mom and my brother, so this was a surprise. This may or may not be related to his migraines, so we got a prescription for glasses but the doctor said not to be too bent out of shape about it since they're not that strong. It's more of a, "only if it helps and you don't have to pay for it" thing rather than a, "This needs to happen" thing.
Xan talked the whole way home about how sophisticated he'd look while reading Garfield comics in bed at night.
I think Xan may be the only six year old I've ever heard of who is legitimately not upset at the idea that he may be wearing glasses.

We went with Xan's suggestion of the bakery cake and got a little cheesecake from the local place up the street that everyone thoroughly enjoyed, even Zephyra up until she realized it left sticky residue on her hands (she can't stand sticky hands). We sang her happy birthday, albeit a day late, and reflected on the fact that she's a big lanky loud toddler now and not a tiny baby.
Just before the cake we'd gone out to the park, where she ran from thing to thing like a speeding bullet, screaming "SWWIIIIIIIIINNNNG" and "WHEEEEEEE" at the top of her lungs as she hit each plaything. She ran up the play structure to the slide, grabbed the bar, swung like a little monkey into the tube slide and landed on her butt going 50 miles an hour and screaming in joy all the way. After shooting out the bottom of the tube she'd hit the ground running all the way to the swing, landing with her chest against the rubber and screaming, "WHEE!" as she flew into the air, back and forth a few times, and flung herself backwards and onto the next thing. This continued for a good 30 minutes without cease. It was rather awesome to behold. I mean even the few other parents who were at the park at that hour (6pm) were impressed.
"Must be working off the nap," one mother commented. "Does she still nap?"
"If we're lucky."
"She'll sleep tonight."
Even Tempest stopped to watch her for a moment, awe-struck at her ability to rocket around the playground at top speed. Xan chased her for a bit, but quickly tired out, and instead focused his energy on tormenting Tempest and her little pack of schoolgirls who were hiding in the girls washroom, screaming about gross boys and needing "privacy" and all the things big sisters do to torment their little brothers.

The court date for the landlord thing is tomorrow, and takes place by telephone conference call. Is this normal? I've never heard of such a thing. I thought we'd both be appearing in some sterile room with a be-robed and impatient arbitrator, Judge Judy style. I am completely unprepared to be on the phone with some random guy who could be sitting behind a computer full of porn in his boxer shorts for all I know.
I mean, I'm sure there are rules for this kind of thing. But still. That's really weird.

If he's had time to see all the evidence packages, I'm completely confident that we'll win this without issue given that landlady's evidence was really lacking. Like, surprisingly lacking… I really thought she'd have it more together than that. If not, then I'm not nearly as confident because it's just a game of he-said-she-said and we'll just sound like two toddlers trying to tattle on each other for crap that doesn't even matter. I'm a little worried about landlady's passive threat of, "They may throw it all out because we were both late" because that would mean her eviction stands, and while we're probably leaving anyway (who wants to stay with that kind of person making your life miserable!?) I plan on fighting tooth and nail for the damage deposit back. We put in our statement and evidence package that we're willing to part with up to $100 to patch a small hole in the ancient grotty carpet and just general crap from living here 6 years. We'd only be willing to give her more if she can absolutely prove that it's required to repair something we directly did through neglect and/or abuse and are actually responsible for paying for, but I'm not just going on the word of her buddy that we owe her a thousand dollars to fund the renovation she's been itching to do so she can raise the rent for the next tenants.
Seriously, we're not assholes about this: if we legitimately damaged shit, we'll pay for it. Because that's what you do. But I'm not giving up all our money just because she said dance.

I mean she even has in there, "numerous calls for a plumber or small repairs".
I ask this with all seriousness because if the answer is no, this is the first time in my entire life I'm hearing it: isn't that exactly what a landlord is for? If you have issues with the house that you cannot solve on your own, like blocked pipes that don't respond to standard methods of unblocking, or repairs or broken dishwashers and fridges or whatnot, aren't you supposed to call your landlord so they can either help sort it, or call someone to help sort it for you? … How can that legitimately be grounds for eviction?

I'm torn on whether or not I want to write her a letter. A nice letter, not a passive aggressive or mean one or anything (I don't want that on my karma), just asking that if there was ever a problem… why weren't we ever talked to about it? We'd understand and be sympathetic if there were ever issues, and we were always willing to discuss things. This is our home. I literally had a child in the living room. We've lived here 6 years and would have been happy to stay for 6 more. She's in and out of the unit many times a year doing small stuff or having conversations with us and has never once mentioned a goddamn thing, so I kind of want to say… what the hell, man? Can't you just speak up? I'm working on the assumption that these are legit issues, which I'm pretty sure they aren't, but if we're going with that… just talk about it. Seriously. It's actually written into the rules about having tenants: you need to communicate to them any problems you're having (or neighbours are having) before randomly evicting them.
At the same time I don't want to stir the pot or anything, particularly once we're finished with the court business and find someplace else to go. I just want to leave it behind me and move on… But I really also want to communicate how unfortunate it was that she didn't just try to have a conversation with us at any freaking point about any freaking thing if she actually, legitimately had issues all this time that she was bottling up for years and years. I mean seriously how hard is it to pick up the phone and say, "The last time I was there I realized it needs some paint touch up on the doorjambs. If I drop off a can do you guys think you can handle it? If not let's work it out".

I'd like to think this is how normal people operate, but you know, life throws you curveballs.

I'll end this on a positive note, and tell a story about an encounter that has really made my life.

About two weeks ago a slight, gray-haired, middle-aged gentleman came to our door late in the evening. This was just prior to our bedtime rush, and we were running late, so initially I didn't even notice him. When I answered the door he looked anxious and timid.
"I've lost my cat. I haven't seen him in days," he explained. "I'm just wondering if maybe you haven't seen him?"
"What's he look like?"
"He's all black."
"No, no I haven't… I'll ask my kids, they often play in the yard during the day and see lots of neighbourhood cats."
I poked my head in and asked the kids about any black cats they'd seen recently, but unfortunately they hadn't noted one either. The man didn't look very positive; he'd been looking for his cat for the better part of a week and didn't have much hope left that he would get him back.
"Is it okay if I look in your backyard?"
"Of course. We have a shed back there, but it's very old and not too safe to jump around in so be very careful if you check in it."
"Oh no I won't go inside, I'll just call him. I'll be able to hear him if he's in there."
He thanked me and disappeared into the back. I went back to tidying up and started getting the night time routine ready to go, when I heard another knock at the door a few moments later. The man was there again, this time standing a bit taller.
"I-I thought I heard a meow coming from your garage," he said. He wrung his hands. "You don't have any cats do you? I think there's a cat in there!"
"We do have a cat. Three, actually… and they're frequently in the garage." I felt bad as I said it. I could see that last bit of hope just drain right out of him. It was really awful. "But, I'll go in there and check anyway."
"Okay, I'll go around the back."
I shut the door and made my way into the garage and poked around. I didn't see, or hear, any cats. He was up against our back door trying to see inside (our light doesn't work well, as it's a finicky old florescent).
I looked at him through the window and shook my head. "I'm sorry," I said. "I don't see or hear anything."
"That's okay. Thanks for looking." He looked absolutely crestfallen, but also somewhat unsurprised. He thanked me again, and turned to walk away. I ascended the steps to go back into the main part of the house, but just before I opened the door I heard a tiny mewling noise. It was very faint, and very quiet; you could easily miss it. It didn't sound like any of our cats. You get to know your cats cries, like a mom knows the sound of her baby over someone else's, and this definitely wasn't a familiar meow.
"Wait!" I yelled. He was instantly back in the window. "I hear a cat! It's not one of ours!"
This man - oh my god this poor man - as soon as the words left my mouth his face was pressed up against the glass, hands to the sides trying desperately to see inside. He was shaking from nerves and excitement, trying not to scream. "Do you see it? Is there a cat?! IS HE BLACK!? IS IT A BLACK CAT?! Oh god, is it him?"

I heard the little mewl again, coming from this hole that leads to a crawlspace under the house. The hole is really small and Chloe has gotten her fat, stupid self stuck in there more than once, requiring me to wrench her free while she screamed in protest. I'm not sure if this space has any exits to the outside, or if it's blocked off, but I've been told by landlady that our neighbours have the same little cut out section and have had a mouse problem as a result (they do not own cats, which is apparently why we have never experienced this problem) so I suppose it has to have some small open access to the yard.
I leaned down next to the hole and quietly clicked my tongue, called, kissed, and did anything else I could think to do to attract a cat. I heard another mewl, this time closer. "Come here, kitty. Come on!" I cajoled. I couldn't see the cat from where I was standing, but could hear it coming closer. It's cry sounded very quiet and sickly. Whatever cat this was, it had been there a while.
The gentleman was still pressed up against the glass, jumping from one foot to another. "Oh my god is it black? Is it a black cat? Oh god."
Finally a little face poked out - an all-black face. I reached out to stroke it and the cat nervously leaned into my hand. A paw inched out next, followed by a shoulder. The cat was pretty big, though rail-thin from what I assume was near-starvation, so I had to reach in and gently pull him out to free him. He was covered in burrs, dirt and cobwebs, and shook in my arms; black as night without a single white hair on him, and clearly relieved to see a human.
"He's black! He's a black cat!" I yelled out. I held him up to the window.
The man's face turned away a moment, overwhelmed, before he spoke. "Oh god it's him! It's him!"
I tried the door but remembered we'd removed the old knob. "I can't get the door open, it's stuck! Come around to the front!" I said. The man disappeared before I even had time to finish saying it. I held onto the cat tightly and made my through the house as carefully as I could, so not to startle him. As I entered the living room I announced it to the kids so they wouldn't come running. Tempest and Xan turned around immediately and very slowly made their way toward me, reaching out to give the cat a tender stroke as I brought him to the front door. The poor cat was so weakened, or perhaps so relieved, that he didn't even try to leave my arms even in the space of somewhere very strange and overwhelming. His eyes were wide and he shook slightly.

In his overwhelming excitement, the gentleman entered my house without knocking - but I didn't mind at all - and he approached me slowly with his arms outstretched. The look on his face… oh man, I will never forget it as long as I live: it was like heaven and earth had opened up just for him.
"Oh Oscar. Oh Oscar!" he cried. His voice cracked as I handed the cat to him, and it seemed to me that Oscar was also reaching out for his owner. The man hugged him tightly, kissed him, and openly wept. "This is my best friend. He's my best friend. Oh god, oh Oscar. I thought he was gone. My best friend. I'm so happy. I'm so happy! I'm going to give you so many treats. So much meat! Oh god I'm so happy."
He turned and shook my hand, thanked me over and over, and then disappeared out the door, dancing and spinning in the rain as he made his way down the street holding his beloved cat.
All three kids were pressed up against the window watching them leave - admittedly I was too - all of us smiling, some of us tearing up as we watched him go.

What a rare and gorgeous experience it is to reunite someone with their lost pet, and see such pure joy and love and relief. I was very literally crying with him for the next half hour, it was such a beautiful thing to behold.

Links of the Day:
Earth Engine time lapse - A truly awesome look at how cities and landscapes have changed over the decades, courtesy of Landsat satellite images taking yearly photos of the planet's surface from 1984 to the present. Some are totally amazing, like seeing the growth of Las Vegas over the years, and others are just plain depressing like the deforestation of the Amazon. (Hat tip to Ginger)
27 stunning works of art you won't believe aren't photographs - Seriously. Look at this shit. This is why the rest of us are terrible artists. There is only so much talent in the world and these people soaked it all up like the beautiful, unfair sponges they are.
Wire wrapped dragon ear cuffs - Not even kidding. These are gorgeous and fantastic. They showed up in a link from [ this treasury ] that my friend posted, because she was also featured in it for [ her amazing wire wrapped jewelry ].
Linguistic maps of America - Khar-mel or CAR-ah-mell?

babyslime — Mon, 03 Jun 2013 08:13:17 GMT

Two years ago the clock flipped over to 12:00am on June the 2nd while Curtis and I were laying in bed watching anime, and just like that my four days worth of prodromal labour shifted with a single, strange contraction.
"Did you seriously just go into labour?" Curtis joked, remarking on our oft-discussed prediction that I'd have baby Fuzz on June the 2nd. While it took another two hours of irregular, cramps and mild anxiety attacks for me to finally work the guts to ask my midwife to come over and double-check. When she arrived and checked me, she said that while I wasn't yet in labour, I was sitting at 7-8cm dilated with signs of pre-labour, so she was going to have to stick around just in case the baby fell out the next time I sneezed. Naturally, the real contractions started immediately following that check, and I went straight into transition.
It was the most painful, emotional and difficult labour I've ever experienced… and it was also the fastest. Zephyra was born about two hours later in the tub in my living room. She was helped into the world with the support of my amazing friend and doula, my husband and love of my life, my two incredibly loving midwives (who later admitted that they didn't have any medical reason to be there at the same time, but had wanted to both be present to support me), my friend and birth photographer, and my two children who fought to wake up in time to witness their new sibling's birth. Xan stood naked next to the tub and cheered and Tempest climbed up on top of Curtis' back while he held me up so she could get a good view of the new little person.

We had a party that evening and so many friends and family came by, bringing food and wine and smiles. It was totally amazing. After so much fear and so much pain through such a difficult pregnancy, her birth and the day's events were a really beautiful close to chapter of my life spent growing babies.

I'm so glad I have photos of her birth. I'm so glad I have some video, even if most of it is dark and grainy. I'm so glad I have some really lovely portraits from another photographer friend from her first few days (so that the onus wasn't on me to try and get it done during my baby moon). These images are so cherished, and it means that whenever I'm feeling wistful - as I am tonight as the clock turns over to June 3rd and we pass her second birthday - I can go through it all over again and remember how awesome birth is. It's painful, and intense, and powerful and emotional and absolutely stunningly beautiful.

My last baby is not a baby anymore… and with the end of this day it means there will no longer be any babies in our home. It is a bittersweet feeling.

Happy second birthday, Boo.

babyslime — Sat, 01 Jun 2013 05:17:07 GMT

Hey, so you know what's awesome about menopause?

1. Suffocating hot flashes that come on without any warning and make you feel like you're walking around in a sauna suit.
2. The gradual change from "normally abnormal periods" to "light to moderate bleeding for months upon months upon months", occasionally punctuated by a small, sudden hemorrhages. Usually taking place while you're out of the house and have nothing on you to use for protection. Double points if you're wearing shorts.
3. Sex drive on drugs.

Absolutely fucking nothing.

In typical fashion, once one stress comes the rest jump on for the ride down. The house stuff isn't actually that stressful anymore, as we may have gotten the townhouse we were looking at and the landlord initially didn't appear to be fighting the court thing. She even refused to speak to us right up until about four days ago. I think the general stressed out feeling is it's more of a resistance issue; once you're weakened, it's much easier for the little shit to get to you.

Curtis in particular is having a rough go. A week or so back he had a biking accident where he was cruising along to work and his bike chain snapped or something and ended up stuck in the gears. He went ass over teakettle and flew over the handlebars, colliding with the edge of the curb. Shit like that makes me extremely thankful that, 1. he's not one of those assholes who doesn't "believe" in safety gear, and 2. that his blood clotting disorder is in remission.
After sitting there for a few minutes, totally dazed, he was helped to his feet by an elderly gentleman and walked his bike back to the house. When he came in he was absolutely covered in blood and road rash. I helped him clean up, then he grabbed some ibuprofen and got in the car and continued on to work, showing up a mere few minutes late, going on to work a 10 hour shift without incident.
Because, Curtis.
It looks alright now, but it was seriously horrific for a while there. He looked a bit like he'd fallen into some sort of thresher. He managed to fix his bike chain, only to have it break again a few days ago. Fortunately this time it did not cause an accident. He can't get the other chain off our spare parts bike so he's going to end up taking one of his days off to get to this awesome little place just outside of town where they have all the bike repair tools/supplies you can ask for, and have you pay a small amount of money to use their workshop to fix your bike (and a slightly higher amount of money to have one of the staff help you out if you're stuck). He's gone to this place quite a few times in the past when needing repairs, and it's seriously amazing that it exists (I found out about it through my therapist, of all people) but it sucks because he'll be using his rather precious day-off time to do it. And this next week his other free day will be devoted to an eight hour first aid course that he's required to take due to his new position in the managerial staff. Hooray. :(
There's also been an absolutely insane amount of work drama that he has come home with the last few nights. Sometimes I forget how ridiculously immature a small group of men can be.
I told him, "Even though that's ridiculous, I think we can all be thankful you're not still working at [a restaurant a few jobs ago] where the day-to-day drama included the executive chef doing blow off a 17 year old waitress while she sucked him off, dumping her the next day, and having her safety inspector daddy try to close down the place out of revenge."
"… This is true."

Kitchens, man… they're fucking insane.

With the complaints I feel like I need to put a footnote about how awesome his job actually is. Kitchens always have drama and weirdness with employees from time to time, but his job really is a good thing and his co-workers are generally pretty awesome - in particular his bosses. Curtis has definitely paid his dues in this industry with some shitty fucking jobs before finally getting into one where they respect him, don't take advantage of him, and appreciate him. In fact, on Mother's Day I was sitting in the kitchen doing dishes when I got a phone call from Curtis' boss.
I swear, when he said, "This is [his name], Curtis' boss" my blood ran cold. No one from his work has ever talked to me before for any reason so naturally I thought this was going to be about some sort of work accident. I mean seriously what other reason would they have to talk to you when your spouse is already at work and has been for several hours?
He goes on to say, "I just wanted to call and let you know how much we appreciate Curtis. He's a great asset to us, he works hard and we really do appreciate all the hard work he puts in. And happy mother's day". I stood there in stunned silence for a very long, awkward moment before being able to stutter out a thank you.

So, I do really love the fact that they're good people. Still, that love doesn't really fill the bucket back up when Curtis is on the third 12-13 hour shift in a row and we're both feeling completely exhausted, overwhelmed and irritable. Weeks like that make you wake up counting the minutes until bedtime.

I wrote the first part of this a few days ago, and since that time the landlady broke her silence and gave me a rather interesting phone call late one night. The first part was a sickly sweet, "Oh hey, I love your family, love your kids, just wanted you to know you have all the time you need to move… not gonna kick you out on the street". This is a dramatic shift from the last time she talked to us, certainly. The difference is she got her court summons and realized we were fighting this. The second part was her letting us know that she was going to bring in "a handyman" for an inspection (the second one in a month, which is technically not allowed, but we told her it was okay as long as she did it when it was convenient for us) and an estimate of damages.
Curtis called the RTA the following morning to get info on this, to ensure that we didn't get screwed in the process and knew our rights. I'm pretty certain she wants to do some renos and have us pay for them, so my major concern was where we stand if/when she gets a quote for some random kitchen overhaul and then submits the invoice as damages we're liable for. Fortunately, this can't happen: her ridiculous list of "damages" that she gave with the eviction notice works in our favour, and she can only submit evidence pertinent to this list. So, she can try to pin whatever the fuck she wants to upgrade on us, but it won't be valid. That was a relief.

She arrived in the morning at around 9:30 with a handyman who isn't a licensed contractor (he apparently works in heating installation and is a friend of hers, iirc). I was ready with a video camera to record the entire thing.
Some of the more hilarious bits include her standing in the hallway, desperately jiggling and then banging on all the doorknobs, muttering, "Well this was much worse when I came before. Much worse." Finally she finds one doorknob that's a touch loose. "There, this one!"
And the handyman goes, "You just need to tighten the screw."
lol. Seriously. lol.
She goes into the bathroom and points at a burned out light. "The light fixture here is clearly broken. I'll need a whole new fixture."
"It flickered when you closed the door, it's just loose."
"Put that down."
"You want me to put down 'change bulbs'?"
"Yes."
He pauses. "Okay." He takes his pen and writes it down on his list, quietly saying it out loud as he does, "Change the light bulb." I mean, holy crap, this guy is just as incredulous as we are about her attempt to pad his estimate with this bullshit.
Another great part was the downstairs bathroom. She points out that the toilet needs a jiggle before it flushes (as it always has) and starts going on and on about how she'll need to replace "all the guts" of the toilet, and gee this was a brand new toilet that she personally installed 6 years ago (cough cough, bullshit, cough cough). And woe is her, this will cost so much money. The handyman peeks inside and says, "The chain is a bit long, it just needs to be shortened. That's… really easy."
"Oh."
Curtis pulled me aside later, "How are you keeping a straight face through all of this? It's fucking magical."
And the vanity. Oh, the bathroom vanity. "This was a BRAND NEW unit. Hardwood. Look at all the damage."
Handyman looks at it. "The scratches?"
"Yes, it's ruined. Brand new."
"This is not hardwood."
"It was BRAND NEW!"
"It's particleboard. This is like a cheap vinyl cover on it"
Long pause. "Brand new. Look at all that damage. I suppose I'd need to replace the entire thing."
"It's particleboard. They're cheap, and get scratched up easily. You could just run a felt tip pen of the same colour over the scratches and they'll disappear. Or you could paint it. Stain it. Whatever you want. It's an easy fix. Besides, it looks antique. I like it."
"Well, I… uh, suppose so."

So much lol. So much.

I also have on video her admitting her intentions of renovating the upstairs suite, which includes tearing up the entire carpet (15 year old, grotty carpet that we've paid to have professionally cleaned twice a year since we moved in, in effort to keep the piece of shit in good shape) and getting an estimate for hardwood. So all her bitching about the hole and the loose threads in the carpet was complete bullshit from the get go.

It also turns out that she didn't properly install the insulation in the crawlspace. There's no vapour barrier, and the fiberglass is just laying around on the floor, being totally fucking useless. The handyman took one look at it and says, "Well there's all your moisture problems right there. No wonder you have such issues with it in the upstairs!" (there's always condensation issues all winter long, all over the upstairs. It's a pain in the ass because mould is a serious problem in homes in this climate, and I'm extremely allergic to mould, so we have to work very very hard to keep it under control).

We got her evidence package the following night, where she claims things like $20 to replace a switch plate that we already replaced last week. It cost us $2.49 and took like 3 minutes.
$150 to replace a towel rack "ripped out of wall and never repaired".

(Here is a picture of that alleged damage, as she did not provide one. However, I do have video of her going into the upstairs bathroom, realizing there's a towel rack installed up there, touching it and announcing, "oh, that went up here").
$50 to change a burnt out lightbulb in the bathroom and wipe the dust off.
And $750 to replace all the carpet in the entire unit. The entire unit.
And a lawnmower, for some reason.

We did notice that she dropped the "large holes in the wall leading from dining room to kitchen" thing. Probably because this is a picture of the wall leading from dining room to kitchen.

So many holes in the wall.

Though it appears she's changed tactics since doing the walkthrough and isn't hinging her case as much on "damages" as she is on the "bad neighbour" defence. Her totally insane story goes like this:
She had us move in six years ago and initially shared the lot with us (it's a detached duplex, she owns both units, they share one small upstairs wall). We were such bad neighbours that she, the landlord and owner of the buildings, was forced to spend hundreds of thousands of dollars buying a new home in a rich area and move away from us rather than communicate any problem.
Read that again: the landlord and owner of both units, was forced to spend hundreds of thousands of dollars buying a brand new home to get away from the tenants that SHE COULD JUST EVICT.
This is literally what it says. I could not make this up if I tried.

Then, she says, she put more tenants in who also moved away because of us. The lack of any documentation of complaints or issues from these tenants is explained away as, "They were too afraid to approach". She provides one unsigned word document, dated for two months after those tenants left, saying that one time our kids went into the back yard to retrieve something and we were "Sensitive" when talked to. And that once they smelled pot somewhere in the direction of our house. Literally.
(They were removed due to their dog problems, shortly after their small dog attacked Xan and was deemed dangerous. Multiple neighbours came up with complaints, though we personally didn't hear their dog barking and had no issues with noise).
Then, Landlady claims, instead of evicting the 'problem tenants' who have apparently now scared away two sets of people, she evicts the neighbours and puts MORE new tenants in! These new tenants also plan to move away because they can't bear to spend another year next to us. Their lack of written complaints or documentation is also explained away under the "too afraid to talk to them" excuse. I wonder, was it the pregnant belly or the cane that was so intimidating?...
The funny part is we actually have talked to them about this - three times - and they said they never gave her any written statements, or complaints, and wanted to stay out of it (fear of retaliation, et al). Initially they were willing to write something in support of us, but after a few days they became… nervous about it (for obvious reasons). Of course, when they old us this we said we respected that completely and apologized for even having to come by to ask them about it. They said they were the ones sorry that we were going through this and wished us luck with court. They were shocked and upset that they were directly implicated in the documents, considering they never involved themselves and wanted no part of it. They reiterated that the worst possible thing they could think of is that our kids and their kids threw toys back and forth over the fence about a year and a half ago, and were asked to stop (they all did). And around the same time Tempest opened up the gate between the yards to retrieve a toy twice. They reaffirmed that they never filed complaints since it wasn't an "issue". It was just kids being kids, all of whom were just asked to remember to ask before going into someone's yard first, all of whom then listened. The kids get along pretty well and play in the front yard all the time. They were even playing together yesterday.

Landlady also claims the duplex next to us said we were bad neighbours, were doing drugs in our backyard, etc. Once again there is no actual documentation of these allegations or complaints, just her claiming "they told me" and no names or dates mentioned. Unfortunately for her, our evidence package includes a signed, dated letter from the residents of that duplex saying we've been nothing short of fantastic neighbours and they've never had any complaints. Oops.

But that first part I cannot get over. I can't. I seriously cannot believe she's claiming that, as landlord and owner of the units, she was "Forced to move away" from us. Seriously. SERIOUSLY. On what planet is that something people do? I mean, if you're the fucking owner why not just kick the problem tenants out? Or like… try talking to them?
There's no documentation of any complaints, conversations, mediation, nothing (of course, probably because it never happened, she moved to be closer to work/school or at least that's what she'd said to us at the time). The bad neighbour reasons are mostly hinged on Tempest and her son playing together and climbing in and out of windows (our house and hers). That did happen, up until we asked them to stop and they did. After a while they stopped playing together because her son, being older, was becoming a bit of a bully. Though we were polite about it and didn't say anything to her, or to him, other than, "Sorry she's busy today!".
Oh, and that our kids played in the backyard, "dangerously" but once again there's no documentation or even the slightest explanation of what these dangers could possibly be.
That was six years ago. As Curtis said, "Even if this shit were real, you can't just save up complaints to stash away and use later. You're supposed to approach your tenants about any problems and try to work them out".

She also includes a dark, blurry picture of the bathroom light (turned off) and a close-up of a cracked fence post with no visual (or written) reference to where this fence post is located or why it's included. Seriously, it could be any goddamn fence post. It's not even mentioned anywhere else in the entire package. We looked.
I mean, there's more, but it's all kind of random (like she includes her tax form from 2007 claiming $18k worth of "renovations" done that year. But there is no documentation, explanation, receipts or pictures of what renovations she did, where she did them, or which parts she's claiming problems with).

Speechless. Totally speechless.

Curtis read through the package first and while he was initially furious with the bad neighbour crap, he calmed down after he spent some time thinking and realized how ridiculous the, "as owner I was forced to buy a new home rather than move the problem tenants out six years ago" claim was and felt better about the whole thing. I MEAN REALLY.

I worked incredibly hard on our evidence package and organized it by section of house, allegations of damage, and added photos, video, as well as full video/documentation of a "counter inspection" we did the day after hers with our friend who has been a floor manager or something at Home Depot for like five years and has ridiculous amounts of experience with pricing and reno/repair information. She priced out the "repairs" at about $50.
I also submitted the video of the landlady's walkthrough, (raw files, as well as clipped files with relevant bits for easier viewing) including open discussion of her plans to renovate the upstairs to hardwood, and her handyman repeatedly telling her that many of her issues are "easy fixes" and "not a big deal".

Unfortunately, both of us (landlady and us) submitted our packages late because we both misunderstood the instructions the same way. 5 business days before actually means 8 business days before. I called her to let her know I'd been made aware of this, and would push for a continuance if the arbitrator had not been able to properly review all the evidence. Once again she was super sweet on the phone, very agreeable, and had lots of sighs and dramatic pauses about how sorry she was. She reassured us that we don't actually have to leave when she said we did, we can take as long as we'd like and she understands how hard it is for families to find affordable places. Again she says she loves our kids, loves our family, but is just so sorry she has to do this. I was equally polite in return and thanked her (genuinely, as while I'm totally surprised by it I am grateful for her change of tone) for her sympathy and leniency during this.
She reiterated this when Curtis dropped off our copy of the evidence to her that evening.

I seriously do not get her at all.

Pictures of the Day:

Links of the Day:
Straight people answer a question gay people have been asked for years - This is the first time I have ever seen a series of interviews with homophobes where it legitimately looks like some of them had their minds opened, or changed.
16 reasons you should never re-enact Pinterest photos - Lol.
Riker sits down like a crazy person - Cannot. Unsee.
Reasons to love Patrick Stewart - After a fan asks an unusual question, Patrick Stewart makes a beautiful and impassioned speech about domestic violence, and his involvement in Refuge (providing emergency shelters for women and children) as well as Combat Stress (supporting soldiers dealing with post traumatic stress) in the name of his parents, due to the violence he experienced and witnessed as a child.
London Comic Con 2013 cosplay music video - OMFG. These costumes are amazing. I have special love for the David Tennant/Matt Smith/John Barrowman cosplay. Attending a ComicCon is now on my bucket list.

Moving on...

babyslime — Wed, 08 May 2013 01:55:31 GMT

Tempest has this knack of hiding laundry when her chore is folding. Every so often we'll find this little stash of socks, clean diapers and pants stuffed in a corner somewhere, or just shoved back into the dirty clothes so she can avoid doing it. Every time this happens we make her fold another load, and every time she flips out about how unfair it is. It's so fucking annoying. It drives us both insane, because we end up missing a bunch of shit that we really actually need (diapers in particular).
She hasn't done this in a few weeks now, but last night as I was in the midst of the bedtime routine I found another stash of laundry shoved in the corner of a bookshelf in the hall outside her door. I called her over and confronted her about it, but she acted disinterested and not particularly phased. I was really angry, and yelled at her about how disappointed I was that she'd done this again, and said I was going to have to search her room for more seeing as we're missing so much stuff. Immediately her demeanour changed from disinterested to terrified. She ran ahead of me into her room and locked the door, screaming, "You can't come in my room! I don't want you in my room!".
I told her she had five seconds to unlock it before I did it myself (it's one of those locks where you can use a butter knife or a coin to turn it from the outside), and she only let me in after I'd already finished the count down and gone to the kitchen for a butter knife. As soon as I entered and started poking around, she ran into the bathroom yelling, "I don't feel good, I feel sick". Immediately I felt bad for yelling at her… though she's never, ever reacted that way to me having a fight with her. Generally she doesn't seem to even care if I'm angry or upset, so this was really strange. I've never seen her like this before.
I searched her room and did not find any more laundry, but I did find about a dozen small caches of random objects: broken toys, scraps of paper, pieces of string, one earring, small pieces of lego. They were all hidden in little boxes, corners, and seemed to be placed very deliberately. None were bigger than a palmful. Tempest was so terrified I would find these caches and throw them away that she literally threw up.

I waited for her to come back, and showed her that I hadn't touched them. She visibly relaxed, but was still nervous enough to start her chewing (she chews a lot: sleeves, hair, fingers and nails. This has gotten a lot better in the last while, and she only does it in the evenings on occasion now. It's a really really common habit for spectrum kids).
I apologized for being angry and gave her a hug. I asked her why she hides these things, and she burst into tears.
"I don't know why I do it. I just have to do it!"

She's struggled with symptoms of OCD for years, and we've battled a few really intense bouts before… but nothing like this. She's been hoarding this crap for months, and I never really put it together until now. I mean, I've seen her do things like this (though not quite so obvious) and I just… didn't get it.

I gave her a hug and asked if she'd like us to check after she does chores, to help ensure she doesn't hide the laundry. She nodded, but said nothing. I told her I loved her, told her again that I was sorry for being mad, and we sat together in her room for 20 minutes talking until she was tired enough to start drifting off. By that point it was 9:30 at night, a full hour after she usually goes to bed to read, and she was exhausted. Xan had fallen asleep waiting for the action to die down (missing his reading time completely) and Zephyra was passed out on my back. It was a horribly stressful evening, and while Tempest seemed calm and content by the end of it, I was really shaken up. I feel awful about being angry with her, I feel stupid for not seeing this sooner, and I feel anxious about facing this with Tempest and trying to help her through it.

I struggled a lot with OCD as a child, though it usually manifested in different ways. Nowadays I hand-wash, clean, and check. My symptoms are largely under control, and my rituals do not dictate my life nor interfere with daily activities… though it took a long time to get that much control over them.
While I know that my own experience can be a valuable asset to helping Tempest learn to control her compulsions, I feel a terrible surge of anxiety at the thought of involving myself in them, and I'm not sure why. The idea of her having bits of broken toys and scraps of paper shoved in corners makes me terribly anxious; I suppose it triggers my cleanliness OCD, and that probably makes our compulsions terribly incompatible. I want to get rid of it all, right now, while she's not here, but I know I can't do that without hurting her. She needs to work through it at her own pace with our help.
It's not even that bad, it's not like it's mould or dirt or something: it's just like bits of random stuff. Nothing that can't be dealt with in a few seconds. The hoarding seems to be fairly recent, maybe a few months at most, so there's not much there… that gives us an advantage to helping her get a handle on it. I don't know. I know she's had a few issues with hoarding here and there but for some reason I didn't put it together as really serious, it was just a few seemingly unconnected events like when she would take candy from the cupboard and put it under her pillow.

We've put together our dispute package and had more conversations with the agency. The more we communicate with them, the better I feel. This is an easy case and I know it, I just hate the stress.

Curtis found a few listings for places and we've visited a couple in the last 1-3 days. One townhouse looks really promising: we'd be one of 120 buildings, there's a fuckton of space, the units are great and they allow pets. It's also a tiny bit cheaper than where we are… but it's far. Curtis would only add about 10 minutes to his daily bike rides to work, but I'd have to drive the kids to school. The drive is only about 6-7 minutes, so it's not bad, but… I don't know. I so badly wanted to stay in this area. I love it so much. I don't want to leave. I really, really hate that the landlady is doing this and it'd be nice if she played by the rules (ie. communication of any issues and attempts to resolve them). I'm so flabbergasted by how out of the blue this came.
The lady who runs the complex gave us an application, and was very nice. We've filled it out but are timid about handing it in. I don't know. I really expected that we'd be here a lot longer. And I really fucking hate moving.
We continue to search for rentals in the area, but 90% of them are out of our price range and the remaining 10% don't allow pets.

Curtis went over to the neighbour's house this afternoon and asked if they'd ever had any problems with us and they said, "No. No noise, no problems, no nothing… why?"
Curtis told them we were being evicted and one of the reasons was problems with adjoining tenants. They reiterated, "No we've never had any issues!" and legitimately seemed confused by the idea that we were being forced out. We're going to get it in writing and add it to our evidence package when the court date comes up. Because seriously.

On the bright side:

1. Tempest went to her first figure skating class this afternoon. She had her try-out either last week or the week before, I can't remember, and she did really well. They placed her in the second level for her age-group.
Mom took her to her first real class, and has offered to pay for the course as well (it's not that much, fortunately), which is really wonderful of her because Tempest absolutely adores it. It's considerably more challenging than the "skate 1" class she finished, and she said that she fell a lot more and got her elbow pretty good at one point, but she isn't discouraged and has a lot of enthusiasm and excitement for the upcoming classes. I'm so extremely proud of her.

2. I started a conversation with a woman on the playground at Xan's school after noticing that his best friend had an older sister who had very obvious symptoms of Aspergers. The woman wasn't their mother, but a friend of their mother, and we talked for quite a while about the challenges and the isolation that comes with being a mom to a spectrum kid. She wrote down my information, saying she'd pass it on to their mom so we could talk. I didn't hear anything until picking up Xan on Friday, when the children's actual mom approached me and we started talking. It's so fucking relieving meeting another person who really gets it: the weirdness, the challenges, the tantrums… her eldest is almost the same age as Tempest, but is not as stable as Tempest has become. The last few years of therapy have been extremely kind to her, and she has done so much better lately. But a few years ago?… she was really in a tough place, and we struggled often. Bedtimes were a nightmare of tantrums and anxiety, we didn't have the right combination of meds, she almost never slept a full night, her behaviour was often inappropriate and we were all very stressed out. This is where this mom seems to be with her daughter right now.
We lamented the changes in BC's funding for autistic spectrum children, and how difficult it is to get a diagnosis (and then how fucking useless it is seeing as they cut literally ALL the support and funding for therapies and programs that make a difference). As I left for the walk home, she asked to meet up for coffee sometime to talk more. Our kids are almost exactly the same age, and would get along well. Her youngest is in the same class as Xan (I'm not sure if she's in Kindergarten or grade one, as it's a split) and they've become best friends. They have an absolutely adorable thing going on where they trade stuffed animals every few days and have "stuffy sleepovers", then bring one or two to school and sit out in the field having imaginary tea parties with them. It's so sweet it makes your teeth hurt.
Xan's been dying to have a play date with her for a while and I keep forgetting to call her up, so at least now I have an excuse to motivate me out of my shy, introvert bubble.

3. The weather has been absolutely beautiful and hot the last week. It's like the middle of summer, except it's early May. I love it so much. So long as my pain levels are within tolerable limits, we can go for walks every day and sit outside and soak up the warmth… I actually managed to get a few seedlings in a mini-greenhouse that LC brought over when she visited last month. One of them seems to be growing. A bit. Though I have a horrible history of black thumb so we'll see how it goes. I won't' be doing any transferring of successful plants, for obvious reasons, but maybe I can keep them in pots and bring them along to the next place we go to.

Hilarious conversation of the day:
One night after the kids were in bed, while waiting for Curtis to get home from work, I had a few ciders and watched, "The Grey". It took about 20 minutes, during that first death scene, to be crying my damn eyes out. I was still sobbing just as Curtis came home from work with about 30 minutes left in the film. As the credits rolled I told him through my snots and gulps that he must never, ever watch this film.
He pulls up Netflix after I'm done and sees that the movie title comes up under the "Dark movies" category.
Curtis: "Well Jesus Heather," he says, "'Dark Movies'. What did you expect?"
Me: "I don't know! Not that!" I sob.
Curtis: "What? Did you think 'dark' meant poor lighting? Like, 'oh my god, this movie is so terribly lit. It's a fucking tragedy."
Me: "That is not what I meant!"
Curtis: "THE POOR LIGHTING IS SO SAD. IF ONLY THIS FILM HAD A MORE SKILLED LIGHTING CREW."
Me: "I hate you so much right now."
Curtis: "No I'm pretty sure you'd hate me if I didn't point it out. I mean really, 'Oh my god, he couldn't tell this movie was THAT dark. He's dumber than I am!'"
Me: "Fuck you so hard."
Curtis: "Oh look, 'Dancer in the Dark' is here as well! Right next to 'The Grey' and 'The Road' in the 'terribly lit' category of movies."
Me: "So hard. So fucking hard. I swear to god."

babyslime — Mon, 06 May 2013 21:10:26 GMT

I was starting to feel a lot better lately; finding more stability and becoming more at peace with the change in schedule, reaching out to friends and talking more with people instead of hiding in my house all the time. Then we got a note from the government saying our CTB (child tax benefit: a monthly payment to families from the government) was cut in half due to a "tax error" from last year. When I called, the best answer I could get is that maybe Curtis' work added income six months after we filed. Which did not fucking happen. From there it was a matter of arguing until someone admitting there was a mistake, but being the government they won't fix it for like three damn months. So that's great three months from now, but what about fucking TODAY?!
In desperation, I put up an album on my personal Facebook of fine art prints for sale and got a few buyers, making in just short of enough to make up the difference, and thank god for that. I was also approached about a possible job on the 15th or 16th of this month provided I can find child care. If the job goes through and I get paid, we'll have completely made up the difference from the CTB mistake and have enough left to pay some bills that need extra payments. So, while right now is a terrifying week, two weeks from now will be fine. I hate that kind of shit because you feel guilty for fretting, instead of just basking in the gratefulness that comes with knowing you managed to find a path out of it… eventually. But it still doesn't change the "OMGSCARYRIGHTNOW" feeling that you live with in the meantime.

Once that seemed sort of resolved, Curtis' friends convinced him he should take me out for breakfast at a nice little place, that's cute and inexpensive. I don't like doing stuff like that because it feels unnecessary, but Curtis made good points about being able to have a stress free experience every couple of months just to feel like a goddamn human. So, we went on a school morning with the last of his tip money and had sandwiches. It was nice to have a reprieve. Sometimes it's nice to be allowed to have a moment. We haven't gone out anywhere, even for like quick bistro food, in ages.
And then of course once you feel like you're better, shit comes down like it always seems to.
We'd just started to let our breath out from that when our landlady came by for her property inspection. This isn't out of the ordinary, she comes in and out of the unit infrequently (a couple of times a year, maybe more) usually for plumbing issues and such, but there was something odd about the way she asked. She called really late at night and was all evasive on the phone, saying things like, "Yeah I think it's time for this", and then kept saying, "It doesn't need to be clean. I don't care if it's dirty." Which, of course, is a red flag for clean like a motherfucking mad person. We're talking cobwebs out of every damn corner, eat off your toilet seat clean. Something felt weird about this and I got really nervous, but Curtis reminded me that we'd had no problems with her: no letters, no complaints, no conversations, no nothing, so the worst thing that could happen is she had an issue with the house that she had to give us a written warning about dealing with it within a "Reasonable timeframe". That's…. not so scary, right? I tried to relax and go to sleep.

She came by a few days later, very cordial and friendly, and did her walk through. She stated she'd be very quick, not disturb anyone, and just needed to look at the cat damage on the upstairs carpet (there's been a hole in the carpet by the sliding glass food for a few years; she was notified of it at the time it happened). She had a little notepad with her but didn't say what she was writing. She made idle, friendly chit-chat as she peeked in and out of a few rooms and commented on how the bathroom looked nice and the house was extremely clean. We showed her the hole in the upstairs carpet that my mom's old cat AJ made 2-3 years ago confirming that it had not gotten any bigger, and repeating our original offer of helping to replace a patch. She waved it off, as she did last time, saying that the carpet is old and grotty and the whole thing needs to go anyway (this is also what she said when she moved in, but we told her we didn't mind that much).
Then she asked a series of really strange, pointed questions :
"If I may ask, how many people live in this home currently?"
"… Curtis, me and the kids?"
"Right, right." What the fuck? "So not your sister and her friends?"
"No, she stayed with us for a few months to have her baby, then left."
"I know."
Okay that was weird.
"Exactly how many animals do you have here?"
"… the same amount we moved in with."
"But one died."
"Yes, and we got another one. You knew about that too."
"Yes, of course. Right. Dogs?"
"We've never owned a dog."
"Right, right. Well, I think we're done here. Thanks!"
And then she left.

That was weird, but nice at least..? It felt really, really strange. The following night at around 10-10:30 the door bell rang right as I was trying to get Zephyra to sleep. Landlady answered it, smiled, handed me a sealed envelope and said cheerily, "It's just the results of my inspection. Have a nice evening!" and left.
Once inside I opened it to find a 30 day eviction notice based on "unreasonable damage to property" and "excessive, repeated noise nuisance to other tenants" (paraphrased), with an attached typed list of the most bizarre shit. I'll get to the list in a minute.

So first: our current adjoining tenants are great people. Our kids get along and play in the front yard frequently, we occasionally borrow stuff from each other, and a few times they've invited Tempest over to play at their house for a bit. We've never had complaints about them, nor them about us. I think the worst possible thing is that the kids (theirs and mine) occasionally threw their toys back and forth over the fence, and then we all asked them to stop, and they did. If they legitimately had noise complaints, we were never told either by them, or by the Landlord, and no warning was ever given in writing (which, afiak, is part of the law when dealing with noise problems). So, there's no paper trail to back this one up. I… have no idea what that's even about.
And then the list. Oh my god, this list.
I'm going to go through this item by item and when I have the time I'll show ya'll pictures. Because it's so ridiculous it's kind of hilarious… though I certainly didn't see it that way the night she handed it to me, I was too busy being totally fucking hysterical over the idea that I had to somehow single-handedly find and move into a place with 3 children and cats (due to Curtis' work), hopefully finding one that isn't so far from schools/work that the cost of commuting doesn't negate any savings on rent. We've been casually looking for a place for 5-6 months without any success, so my hopes are not high that we'd find something in less than 30 days.

Things on the list are some of the following:
Chipped paint on doorjambs (paint has a life of 4 years under title 40 of the tenancy act… and unless she comes in to re-paint, which she didn't, any chips count as normal wear and tear)
Broken fireplace (it's unplugged… and she did not walk up to it to try and turn it on, so I'm not sure how she came to this conclusion)
Towel rack ripped off wall, damage not repaired (we do not have a towel rack, and none came with the house).
Crooked doorknob on downstairs bedroom (seriously. This is serious. I looked at it last night and it jiggled a bit, so I tightened the screw. Voila - I just knocked four hundred dollars off the damage bill.)
Bathroom door not square, has to have been kicked repeatedly to do this. (Our bathroom door closes fine, it just doesn't lock properly because the catch was installed about an 1/8 inch too high. Have no idea where the kicking thing comes in).
Garage mechanism broken (the chain slipped off the catch, it does often, we just slip it back on)
Called for washer repair when there was nothing wrong with the washer (this one's true: we thought the washer was leaking, asked her to come by, she called a repair man and he figured that something polyester may have agitated up on top of the middle thing, so the rinse cycle water may have splashed out). I did not realize you could be evicted for "Better safe than sorry"?

She then claims one thousand dollars in damages to the above. I just… what? WHAT? It was so fucking bizarre. I mean, can't you even come up with something good and expensive like we broke your stove by hitting it with sledgehammers or something? Even if all that shit was totally legit, it wouldn't equal anywhere close to $1000 to paint a doorjamb, tighten screws and plug in a fireplace.
Curtis called her on his way home from work (he bikes, and has a handy dandy earpiece that came with his phone) to try and talk to her and she got very flustered and weird once he started asking for documentation of any damages or disturbances. Once cornered she said that other problems included us smoking pot out a window, but she left that off to be nice.
Now, a lot of people smoke pot here, including on this block, and I've tried it before. But… we're not pot people. We never have been pot people. Our drug of choice is alcohol, and we tend to only get a six pack of ciders or some shit when Curtis gets his tips so it comes to of 'extra money' and never out of our budget. So, that one takes the cake.
Curtis asked again for proof and documentation of every claim, and proof that the damages cost that much to "repair". She hung up on him, and has refused to speak to us since.

I called the RTA the next day and they were incredibly helpful. We went through the list and not only are half the things her responsibility, but the other half are non-issues, making this an illegal eviction. So now we're going to court to dispute it. They assure me it's a simple case because she has no documentation for her claims and even if she did, the claims are fucking ridiculous. So there's that, but ugh, this is one thing I do not want to have to do right now.

The weirdest part about all of this is that we've never had any issues with her. I mean, she's kind of a weirdo and has always been rather passive aggressive… like that one time at Tempest's birthday party where she brought out a bucket of water balloons, set them up 10 feet from the party, and then announced that no one was allowed to use them and started filling them all up… just to sit there. Inevitably, kids started playing with them, at which point she sat in a chair and grumbled about "nasty kids" until my friends' became so uncomfortable they had to leave (remember this facethemoon, oopidsnot?). She did weird shit like that all the time, but it didn't really affect our rental so we just ignored it and were thankful she wasn't a crazy landlady. This was totally out of the blue and I'm absolutely gobsmacked by it.

The next morning I deposited Curtis' work cheque at the ATM, and rent came out the next day. In my haze of stress I forgot about the bank weirdness that happens if you do that: when you deposit a cheque at the machine they hold the funds for 5 days, but the money is technically still "there" so cheques and automatic payments will be taken from those funds without issue… however you can't use your card to make purchases until the funds clear a few days later. What ends up happening is that cheques come out, but your card gets locked. This happened once before and it took me a day and a half to figure out why my account balance said I had hundreds of dollars but my card kept getting declined.
So, of course, my card locked up at the corner store which meant I couldn't buy anything for dinner. We had stuff in the house for things like mac and cheese or grilled cheese, not enough for me but enough for the kids, but holy fuck with everything else coming down at once I felt a mess of depression and upset. The stress caused a horrible pain flare-up that was slowly getting worse. The pain was radiating up into my shoulders, and by the time I went to bed that night it was into my neck and jaw. All I could think as I sat on the couch with the kids was how badly I wanted someone to show up with a meal so I could sit and quietly cry it through. I would call my dad on a night like this, but he's gone in land with his partner to deal with legit tenant issues (his partner's tenant actually did do thousands of dollars of damage to her place, holes straight through from floor to ceiling, graffiti tagging, dead animals….). The pain was horrific, I was alone all night, and I really just wanted to curl up in a ball and hide in a blanket fort until the world just naturally righted itself around me.
While I was sitting there trying to figure what we could scrounge from the supplies we had in the house, I recalled the "Random acts of pizza" forum on Reddit that I'd heard about. Apparently it's a place where people can ask to have a pizza gifted to them for all manner of reasons (being poor and hungry, offering up a drawing, just 'cause you want one, etc). I've had an account on Reddit for a while but only in the last 2 months or so have I started posting or commenting regularly in a few spots, so I have yet to get the hang of the site. I mostly spend time looking at the make-up forum, because omg make-up.
Anyway, a quick browse through the pizza sub forum showed that while some people had foodmergencies, most people were just looking for variations of "I'm hungry can I have one"? The rules seemed to reflect this: doesn't matter, if you want a pizza you ask for it. So I swallowed my pride and took a chance, making a post saying that I'm under a lot of stress and could really use a meal I don't have to cook. Initially one or two people responded right away, which was really kind, and then someone must have tipped off the blog trolls because they came in like a shitting hurricane all through the post and comments, making bizarre accusations that had nothing to even do with the forum, even going as far as to start private-messaging those who had offered to help out and urge them not to. The people who weren't blog trolls (at least I don't think so) were accusing me of pretending to be a single mother to garner sympathy because I did not specify in my title that I had a spouse, and at that point I was convinced that I'd made a terribly embarrassing mistake and misunderstood the point of the sub. If it was legitimately only for starving/verge of homeless, then I'd done something really stupid and offensive. I edited my post to apologize, and attempted to apologize to the individuals who had said they felt I'd been misleading, but of course you never apologize to trolls because that gives them more gas (it's not apologizing, it's "back-pedalling" or "caught in lies"). Seriously, I know better than to talk to these people but it did not occur to me at that time that a set-up was going on.
Shortly after that mess, a mod messaged me to say that that the forum is NOT only for people who "can't eat" and is actually just for anyone, anywhere, for any reason, who would like to eat a pizza, and expressed horror at what was going on. Which means all that trolling was mindless gibber for no other reason than, "I don't like you lol". So that was disappointing. Not so much because of pizza, as much as it's disappointing that even something as small as requesting a random act of kindness for a shit day is blatantly "not allowed" if you're infamous enough to be disliked by three or four really frighteningly devoted people with sock puppet accounts because you didn't spend the time to tell them the tale of your last week in immaculate detail. Like, really? Because that was totally necessary.

I was told later that a major reason for this buffoonery was because in some other thread somewhere I had told someone I became disabled after I had kids, rather than becoming disabled prior to deciding to have children. It comes as a surprise to me that this is a blatant, purposeful falsehood and I should have instead specified the details: I became disabled (self-identify + diagnosis) after 3 kids, then had my 4th after. Apparently the more generalized "after I had kids" was so false that it's practically evidence of pathological lying.
When I first read that I literally thought that was a friend/reader making a joke, riffing off the idea of the ridiculous style of hyperbolic trolling… but then realized no, it was legit. Totally legit.

Anyway… my debit card was unlocked the following afternoon, which is WAY faster than it was when this happened the first time (I think that time it took like 9 days or some shit). Thank the fucking gods for that. That means I can actually shop for food and not have to worry about grilled cheese and canned beans for dinner for the next five days.
Regardless, the mod of the pizza forum sent an order to my house because she said she felt horrible for what she called the "worst witch hunt on this forum in a while" and wanted to try and make it better. It felt really nice to have a random act of kindness come out of that clusterfuck after all. Later, I realized that three people sent money to my Paypal account after I had gone to bed that night, which is also very sweet and a wonderful thing to do. The worst of the crisis has passed since my card is now unlocked… so instead I'm going to pass that on by gifting someone else on that forum. Because regardless of how I was treated, everyone deserves a nice act on a shit day, no matter what. So thank you to the three who were kind enough to try and make my night easier, that was a lovely thing to do for someone having a stressful night; I'll pay it forward.

With the exception of that one kind gesture, the week has been pretty fucking awful. I'm so far out of spoons I'm scratching holes through the drawer.

I've been trying to relieve some of the tension by getting back into knitting. I started a lovely sweater like a year and a half ago and all I've done is the back piece and 3/4 of the right front. So, you know, its coming along. Ankylosing spondlytis (the diagnosis that has caused the majority of my issues over the years) is kind of a type of arthritis, and it can spread into wrists and other joints, so when I have flare-ups my wrists and fingers get really bad, preventing me from doing things I like to do like knitting or wire wrapping for more than a few minutes. Typing is even difficult after a while, which is part of the reason for decreased entries over the past few months. Overall the progress of the disease seemed to be at a stand-still for several years, but now I feel it might actually be getting worse. My pain doctor wants me to go back to my rheumatologist to check for disease progression, and has started talking about the remission drugs that cost like $40'000 a year. I do not know how you Americans do this shit, because if I had to pay $40k for medication that allowed me to live - I would very literally die.
The whole idea of upgrading to that kind of arsenal is nerve-wracking. I kind of want to say, "No really! It's good! I'm good, see? I can still move!". I don't want to give myself injections of insane remission drugs for the rest of my life. I mean, I don't want to take pills for the rest of my life either but I've come to a sort of peace with that one. Adding in shit like "Injections" and "remission" is a whole other story. It's probably not as bad as it sounds, the side effects don't seem too bad according to my pain doctor (he has a few patients on these drugs already), it's just the idea of moving my condition into that scary "stop it from progressing" category that gets me. I don't like the implication.

On the sort of plus side, it is my birthday today. So happy birthday to me: life sucks right now, but hopefully it will get better soon.

Links of the day:
New recommendations in bedsharing debate - Choice quote, "She said a recent Alaskan study found that 99 per cent of bedsharing deaths involved either maternal smoking or sleeping with someone affected by substances. Professor Fetherston said another critical risk factor was unsuitable environments, which could involve too much soft bedding, sleeping with siblings or pets and sofa-sleeping. "Often when researchers look at bedsharing, they include sofa-sharing or armchair-sharing, which have been shown to be very dangerous, with a number of associated deaths," she said. "In fact, when you remove deaths associated with sofa-sharing from the analysis, the rate of bedsharing deaths is lower than the rate found in babies sleeping by themselves in cots."
Dear less than perfect mom - Words that all of us need to hear from time to time.
Stick-n-find - This is what we've all been hoping for since wireless technology became a thing. You stick these little things to anything: a remote control, your pet's collar, your backpack… and then your phone loads up an app that acts as a radar, leading you to the object with the sticky on it. Seriously. And a two-pack + app is only $50, which is a goddamn steal for this kind of convenience. When we have the extra cash, I am so buying this.
Parents of small children: let me be the one who says it out loud - A really wonderful, grounding essay about how losing your cool and wanting alone time does NOT make you a terrible parent. Small children are hard sometimes.