Saturday, October 31, 2009

i mooed.

So, I had taken the Am.bien, The Castor Oil, and shoved the Evening Primrose Oil up there. And all I had to show for it was flushed away in an instant. After dosing myself with some more Evening Primrose Oil, I went back to bed.

I woke up two hours later, a little after 5 a.m. And I hurt. I felt like I was coming down with the flu or something. My back hurt. My belly hurt. My legs hurt. My... well, that hurt, too.

I heaved myself up, rolled out of bed, and tripped to the bathroom. Apparently the effects of The Castor Oil Treatment were over. Nothing was happening.

But I really, really hurt.

I thought about calling my midwife to tell her I was really, really hurting, but seriously? I truly believe that if you call your midwife at 38 weeks, at five in the morning, to tell her your vagina hurts? It's like hiring a hit man. FOR YOURSELF.

So I took some deep breaths, and tried to relax my hurty self, and it was 100% ineffectual. I went back to bed, but it hurt to lie down. So I heaved myself back up, rolled out of bed, and went back to the bathroom, because leaning over the sink and swaying back and forth felt a tiny bit better than laying down.

Have I mentioned I am occasionally stupid?

I was there, swinging on the bathroom sink for a few minutes, and I stopped moving, because I was hearing a really weird noise. I listened hard, trying to figure out what in God's name was making that noise.

Ummm, yeah. It was totally ME. I was moo-ing.

It was at that moment, when I heard myself baying like a freaking cow, that my light bulb blazed on.

I was having a baby. RIGHT EFFING THEN.

I stood there and made two plans. Plan A: I would wake up The Mister. If he jumped out of bed, I would call his mother to tell her to run up the street to stay with the children. If she answered the phone, we would go to the hospital. Plan B: If The Mister did not jump right out of bed, I would get in the tub and call our neighbor who is the OB Nurse Manager and tell her to let herself in.

We went with Plan A. The Mister and Miss O got up, my MIL charged up the street, and we flew to the hospital. I tried again to reach my midwife so she could, you know, be there for the delivery. It was the longest car ride of my entire life. And I've made the trek to FLORIDA from here, people.

It was 6:00 a.m.

The Mister raced into the hospital to get a wheelchair for me. And he even had the nerve to make me sit down in it. I was really not excited about this, because hello, there's a baby head between my butt bones right now, dude, and sitting makes it worse.

He wheeled me to Labor and Delivery, where Nurse Sunday Driver lollygagged her way to a room. The room that was not sanitized or reset after the previous delivery. So she lollygagged her way down to the one that was furthest away.

My water broke. They hefted me out of the chair, and I leaned forward on the bed while they took my wet clothes off.

This is how we're going to do this, I said. I am going to have this baby right. NOW. Standing here. You are going to catch.

Oh, no, honey, Nurse Lollygagger Sunday Driver said. I have to check you.


Oh, no, honey, you need to get in bed. I have to check you before you can push.

And then she knocked my punk ass in bed. And she checked me. And she actually seemed surprised that I was, indeed, seconds from giving birth.

A flood of Emergency Room staff rushed the room, the same guy who had his hands in my places on my anniversary. Dude stood at the end of the bed, tilted his head to the right, stared at the gaping orifice in front of him and said the stupidest thing I have ever heard in my entire life.

Ahh, ummm, I'm gonna need you to not push.

I sat up. What?

Yeah, don't push.

I refrained from calling him Dr. Fucker because my 6 year old daughter was standing by my left shoulder, and I'm a good mother like that. Instead, I said, Right. This is me, not pushing. I took a deep breath, put my chin down, and pushed Elliott's head out. Also, I pushed out a rogue family of hemorrhoids that were residing in my ass. It was a family the size of the Duggars, mom, dad, 19 children, one daughter-in-law and one grandchild. Not that anyone counted or anything.

Then, Dr. Please-Don't-Have-A-Baby-I've-Already-Handled-Your-Vagina-Once-And-That's-Plenty-For-Me-Thanks, well that guy told me to slow down. BECAUSE LET'S MAKE THIS LAST LONGER SO WE REMEMBER IT BETTER?!?!?!

He stood there and watched my no-longer gaping orifice, which really, I don't blame him, if I were faced with a vagina with a face I'd stare, too.


Dr. Please said he wasn't able to do that.

So I pushed again and launched my third 9 pound baby into the world, twelve minutes after arriving at the hospital. I really hope someone caught him, and that he didn't land right on the bed, because that would be crappy. Somewhere in the three minutes between when I got on the bed and pushed him out, my midwife arrived. It was a well-attended birth.

Thursday, October 29, 2009

did i even tell you about when sweets was born?

No? Well, then mah peeps, settle down for story time.

Sweets was due April 9th, I think, honestly I don't remember. Yeah, yeah, gasp and stuff. None of my kids were born on their due dates, and I don't remember any of the due dates.

I only remember being VERY overdue with Miss O. And Wee Man. And HB. Except we didn't actually know when I joined the pudding club with HB, but I am absolutely positive I was horrifyingly overdue.

By the time the last week of March rolled around, I had been having contractions for hours every day. Sometimes they were in a pattern, and could be timed, other times they were comparable to being randomly whacked in the belly with a baseball bat. Good times, y'all, good times.

On Friday, March 27th, I was 38 weeks into it, and ended up going to the hospital for a labor check. They sent me home with an Amb.ien, the Drug of the Blessed, and said maybe I just needed a good night's sleep.

So, being the good girl I am, I took my Am.bien, and hopped on the computer to do a little research into The Castor Oil Treatment For Babeh Removal. Castor Oil is handy for speeding things up a little if you find yourself sort of in labor.

Also, it makes you crap your brains out.

Naturally I took a responsibly-sized dose. And then I applied two Evening Primrose Oil tablets to my, ummm, cervical area. (Evening Primrose Oil helps you to become dilated and more effaced if you find yourself sort of in labor.)

I was planning to engage in the sort of activity that got me in that situation in the first place, because that helps, too, but I'm a cheap date and the Ambi.en knocked me out.

I woke up at 3 a.m. and crapped my brains out, but I was not in labor. Not a flipping contraction in sight. I was very disappointed. I applied two or three more Evening Primrose Oil tablets, because I had an enormous bottle, and they were expensive-ish, and why be wasteful? And then I went back to bed.

I was very disappointed.

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

so that happened.

Elliott slept all. night. long. last night.

It was amazing, almost.

He was out like Christmas break winter holiday when I went to bed. Usually he's in between sleep sessions when I turn in for the night, so I get my pj's on, climb in bed with him, and fall asleep nursing him. Then he wakes up two hours later, we switch sides, and I fall back asleep nursing him. Then he wakes up two hours later, we switch sides, and I fall back asleep nursing him. Then he wakes up again two hours later, we switch sides again, and I fall back asleep again, nursing him. Then...

Dude loves him some boobies. For real.

Usually I wear a bra to bed, because oh my word, have you seen me? I have a set. And a hard-working set they are. I should really look into being a wet nurse or something because, well, I could.

But last night, I was so. very. tired. I've been wearing a bra practically nonstop for nearly seven months. If you've ever done this, you know it gets all hot and itchy in there and no, I haven't worn the same bra continually for seven months, please, people, give me a little credit.

I took the thing off. And I got me a handy dandy toddler sized prefold diaper, folded it neatly, and put it in my shirt. BECAUSE THEY LEAK, that's why.

At 2 a.m. I realized I had wet the bed.

I was soaked from my chin to my belly button. I find it hard to imagine I would have been less pleased if I had actually wet the bed in the conventional manner.

So, I did the only logical thing I could think of at two in the morning: I took off my wet shirt, and put on a dry one.

And I changed my diaper.

Sunday, October 25, 2009

have you heard of juvenile dermatomyositis? read on.

I read this post on a number of blogs I frequent, and contacted Kevin of Always Home and Uncool to offer up my little corner of West Blogoslovakifornia, as part of his effort to raise awareness in the blogosphere of juvenile myositis, a rare autoimmune disease his daughter was diagnosed with seven years ago. The diagnosis day also happens to be his wife’s birthday.

Our pediatrician admitted it early on.

The rash on our 2-year-old daughter’s cheeks, joints and legs was something he’d never seen before.

The next doctor wouldn’t admit to not knowing.

He rattled off the names of several skins conditions — none of them seemingly worth his time or bedside manner — then quickly prescribed antibiotics and showed us the door.

The third doctor admitted she didn’t know much.

The biopsy of the chunk of skin she had removed from our daughter’s knee showed signs of an “allergic reaction” even though we had ruled out every allergy source — obvious and otherwise — that we could.

The fourth doctor had barely closed the door behind her when, looking at the limp blonde cherub in my lap, she admitted she had seen this before. At least one too many times before.

She brought in a gaggle of med students. She pointed out each of the physical symptoms in our daughter:

The rash across her face and temples resembling the silhouette of a butterfly.
The purple-brown spots and smears, called heliotrope, on her eyelids.
The reddish alligator-like skin, known as Gottron papules, covering the knuckles of her hands.
The onset of crippling muscle weakness in her legs and upper body.

She then had an assistant bring in a handful of pages photocopied from an old medical textbook. She handed them to my wife, whose birthday it happened to be that day.

This was her gift — a diagnosis for her little girl.

That was seven years ago — Oct. 2, 2002 — the day our daughter was found to have juvenile dermatomyositis, one of a family of rare autoimmune diseases that can have debilitating and even fatal consequences when not treated quickly and effectively.

Our daughter’s first year with the disease consisted of surgical procedures, intravenous infusions, staph infections, pulmonary treatments and worry. Her muscles were too weak for her to walk or swallow solid food for several months. When not in the hospital, she sat on our living room couch, propped up by pillows so she wouldn’t tip over, as medicine or nourishment dripped from a bag into her body.

Our daughter, Thing 1, Megan, now age 9, remembers little of that today when she dances or sings or plays soccer. All that remain with her are scars, six to be exact, and the array of pills she takes twice a day to help keep the disease at bay.

What would have happened if it took us more than two months and four doctors before we lucked into someone who could piece all the symptoms together? I don’t know.

I do know that the fourth doctor, the one who brought in others to see our daughter’s condition so they could easily recognize it if they ever had the misfortune to be presented with it again, was a step toward making sure other parents also never have to find out.

That, too, is my purpose today.

It is also my birthday gift to my wife, My Love, Rhonda, for all you have done these past seven years to make others aware of juvenile myositis diseases and help find a cure for them once and for all.

To read more about children and families affected by juvenile myositis diseases, visit Cure JM Foundation.

To make a tax-deductible donation toward JM research, go to or

Thursday, October 22, 2009

a blissful benefit

I love coffee. And I loves me some Blissfully Caffeinated.
Congrats to you and Mr. C., and also bourbon-sugar soaked kisses, from the tall and the short of us here at the dayton time.

baby cereal: this is how we roll ***now with updates!***

Here's a little tip for all you baby food feeding people out there. Lean in close, because I'm gonna tell you a secret:

Baby food is a colossal rip off.

If you have a blender or a food processor, a stove, a pot and some water at your disposal, you can make baby cereal for wicked cheap. We have the sweet Mennonite Bulk Food Store Hook-Up. Today, I made brown basmati rice cereal, barley cereal, and oat cereal.

You can't beat the price.

This here's barley.

Put it in that there food processor.
Or blender.
Just don't put so much in the blender.
Because it will get all crabby with you.
And it will refuse to do a good job.
Trust me on this one.

Turn on your food processor.
Go fold laundry or something.

See how there's still chunks of barley?
That means it's not done.
Go fold some more laundry.
Or something.

When the barley (or rice, or oats, or millet)
gets all powdery and flour-ish,
it's done.

Also, please do not make me tell you
that sticking your hand in a
food processor is
Moving on.

Bring a couple of cups of water to a rolling boil.
Whisk in a half a cup or so of the powdery, flour-ish grain.
Be certain to pay attention.
Because if this sucker boils over,
you are going to regret it.
Trust me on this one.

Continue to watch your the pot boil.
Whisk often.
Nobody likes burnt baby food.
Again, trust me on this.
When it's thick and resembles
it is done.

Please don't make me tell you that
you shouldn't feed your baby
boiling hot porridge.
Really, Holmes.

Happy baby.

1. Sarrah asked if I made the pot for the whole week. My answer: sort of. I make a pot and put it in a canning jar. We scoop out a meal for Elliott, and pop the jar back in the fridge. I make more as needed because it's really quick. And if you make porridge right before baby's mealtime, and you have frozen cubes of fruits and veggies, you can throw one or two into the hot porridge to cool it down before feeding it to your babe.

2. I make lots and lots of ground grain at one time. Last night I ground a quart jar of rice powder, a quart jar of barley powder, and a quart jar of oat powder. My main reason for this is because I do not want to have my food processor on my counter any more than necessary. I keep the grain powder in quart canning jars in my fridge, but it stores very well in the freezer, too.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

we like to help. so click, scroll, click. it's that easy.

A local credit union is having a Pay It Forward contest, where they gave away $10 to anybody who came into the credit union and made a video saying which charity they were giving their $10 to, and why.

TRANSLATION: Bank gives money to people who give it away and make movies.

After all the videos were made, a supersecret panel decided on the top ten most compelling causes. Those ten videos have been posted HERE, and the credit union wants everybody to vote on the best video, which will win $1000.

TRANSLATION: Lots of people were not as interesting as 10 that were interesting and compelling, you get to choose who is best.

As it happens, I know most of the people in the videos, and I'm also going to tell you who to vote for.

Susan, who on a normal day I call Sue, but it's only been the last four or five years that I've been able to call her by her first name without being a little nervous because she was my ____th grade teacher, and in my head her first name is still Missus.

Sue has a real heart for the soldiers in the military. Her sister was in the military, maybe that's how she became involved in the first place. I don't know. But one of the ways she supports soldiers is by collecting golf balls.

Stop scratching your head.

When they have time off, some of the soldiers like to play the Desert Driving Range. Except they can't go retrieve the balls because the area surrounding the bases are filled with land mines. Not superconducive for playing fetch.

Sue collects golf balls and mails them to soldiers in Iraq. And that, my friends, is cool. And if all 135 of you that get me in a reader, and the 67 of you who follow my blog via the googles voted, that'd be 202 votes, and plus me, it's 203 votes, and maybe she would win.

And that would be pretty cool. Thanks, y'all.

open letter to britax

Dear Britax,


That right there is a big, wet, sloppy kiss from me. I know, it's not always the best strategy to show one's hand like that before even speaking... It would be almost as awkward if I, say, bumped into Alton Brown and even before introducing myself and telling him I'm his new girlfriend because of the Baked Macaroni and Cheese recipe, started making out with him.

Mmmm.... macaroni and cheese.

I digress, Britax.

Last month, I was over at Steph's place, Adventures in Babywearing, because, well, she's flat-out lovely, that's why, and I commented on a post. And do you know what happened?

I won a Blink. In Cowmooflage. Randomly. And then? The UPS man actually brought it to my house! It was so exciting! I love the UPS man. (Not make-out love, I just foster a deep appreciation for him.)

I sliced open the box with a very sharp knife, because I live dangerously like that sometimes, and slid the stroller from the box. Without even reading the instruction manual, I assembled the stroller. And by assembled, I mean I put the two front wheels on and unfolded the stroller. Let me tell you, this is the first sign of an awesome stroller: being able to use it without an instruction manual. Because, Britax, I'm going to be honest with you. Sometimes? I'm a little dumb. And also? I have a teensy-weensy problem with spatial reasoning. Or maybe I have a really enormous problem with spatial reasoning? I'm really unclear about that.

Spatial reasoning aside, my 6.5 year old fits comfortably in the Blink. My 6.5 month old fits comfortably in the Blink. And also, he looks super cute on the Cowmooflage print when he has his cow-print BabyLegs on. Just saying.

Another reason I love this stroller? I can push it with one hand. Which is really useful for the times when we're walking to preschool and I have my vat o'morning coffee in one hand, and a backpack, and three other short people walking under my feet beside me. Maybe you'd consider including a handy-dandy coffee holder? But really, I'm not complaining, because I can chug sip and stroll, and that's really all I need in life.

I don't kick the back of the stroller when I walk, and I'm long-legged-ish. The basket under the seat is large enough to carry a J.J.Cole BundleMe, my wool wrap, two parasols from Chinatown in Philadelphia, my wallet, and Wee Man's and HB's winter coats. Good work, Britax.

I apologize for busting out with that sloppy kiss right at the beginning, but I just couldn't help myself. Thanks for the fabulous stroller. Thanks for supporting great bloggers like Stephanie Precourt. Thanks for designing a really useful, easy-to-use, totally slick-looking stroller.

All my love,
Your new girlfriend,

PLEASE BE ADVISED: I won this stroller in a random giveaway, just like I said. There were no strings attached to the giveaway, meaning that neither was I required to, nor was it even suggested that I review this product. Also I was not asked to publicly make out with any employee of Britax. I wrote this post because the Britax Blink is a freaking fabulous stroller, and I would totally pay cash money for one of these. Also? The FTC can suck it.

Monday, October 19, 2009

monday mad lib

Today, we went to the _______(noun) farm. The field trip for _______ (boy's name) class was rescheduled, and we had to be there at _______ (terrible time of day to arrive anywhere when you have 4 children).

We woke up to find one half inch of ________ (noun) on the ground and trees. It was so ______ (adjective), I nearly _______ (verb) my ______(noun) off... and that was before I got out of my _________ (noun).

Lucky for me, and everyone else, I had made ________(food) in the crockpot so we could actually ________ (verb) breakfast before we left. Unlucky for me, I could only find one of my ________ (noun), and had to wear my faux-crocs.

We _______ (verb) to the farm very ________ (adverb) because we were _______ (adverb) late. As it turns out, I am not as _______ (adjective) as I thought; ________ (number) parents got there after us. Ha!

My _____ (male offspring) seems to be very ______ (adverb) with the other ________ (plural noun) in his class. They all shouted "_____!!!" (exclamation) when he ________ (verb) out of the ______ (vehicle).

Lucky for me, I remembered to bring my _________ (noun) so I could record the crazy _____ (noun) that is my _______ (plural noun). I _______ (verb) lots of ______ (plural noun) while they ________ (verb) in the snow and got their _______ (body part, plural) wet and cold.

Unlucky for me, the farmer had us _________ (verb) Red Delicious apples, which are on the same level as _______ (noun) in my book. Lucky for me, his wife let me dump our icky Red Delicious apples in the ________ (noun) for second-quality apples, and refill our _______ (noun, plural) with Macoun apples.

The best part? The farmer's wife makes these totally amazing cider _______ (noun) that are covered in ________ (noun) and are probably laced with some sort of addictive substance like _______ (noun). The next time we have any ______ (noun), I am putting _____ (noun) in my mini-cooper van and _______ (verb) to the apple farm and _______ at least 2 dozen of those bad boys. I will ______ (verb) them all and ______ (verb) them in cider, whilst the _______ (plural noun) wait in the minivan.

And now, the fun part!!! This is a contest. What you should do: Copy and paste my mad lib into the comments and ________ (verb) in the blanks. The person with the funniest version, and the person with the most accurate version will ______ (verb) a half-pint jar of ______ (fruit) butter, handmade by me. Why? you ask, and not just because my header told you to. Because it's Monday, and nothing spices up a Monday like cloves and cinnamon and turbinado sugar!

Be sure to leave your email address in the comments so I can contact you if you are the winner.

Friday, October 16, 2009

girl scout demographics, defined

Miss O joined The Brownies. For those of you who are unfamiliar with The Brownies, they are mini-Girl Scouts. I accompanied her, as I am wont to do, because I am That Sort Of Mama. You know, the kind who doesn't send her six year old daughter off to a brand new activity all by herself, but stays and makes a big freaking deal of it when her behavior goes all crazy.

Not that my daughter misbehaves. Ahem.

Wee Man is really struggling with this whole not-going-to-girl-scouts-thing, and Miss O and returned home just in time to hear this:


We'd been gone for an hour and a half. That must have been one long conversation.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

my lifelong struggle.

So I have this problem. And who better to kvetch with than my friends of West Blogoslovakifornia? Nobody, that's who. I'm going to be honest with you, because I am pretty much honest, unlike my good pal WRH, who posits that all women are liars. And yes, I meant posits, not post-its, which are things, unlike posits which is cinnonamous with theorizes. Get with it.


I'm hairy.

Seriously. Hairy. And I'm pretty sure that's why my birth parents gave me up for adoption. And I'm also pretty sure that these people? Are my biological family.

The Hairy Face Family

Or maybe Ma Hairy Face had an affair with the Fire-Eating Lion Tamer, and was afraid that I would come out looking all smooth-skinned and clean shaven and whatnot, and Pa Hairy Face would find out and get all pissed off and, I don't know, clip her beard or something. The horror!

I remember in elementary school, we were attempting to playing basketball, and the pretty girl brushed up against me and squeed with shock at the sleek mink coat my forearms were wearing.

Ach, and my legs? I'm going to save you the regurgitive experience that is the detailed description of how 'zactly gross they were, just know this: shaving your legs is for when you're older. (As are contacts, small-framed glasses, calling boys, and staying up past 9:30. But clearly, I survived. And also? I shave now.)

I was on the Junior High Swim Team. It was all kinds of fun. I was a pretty decent swimmer, backstroke was my strong suit. We don't have poolside seating for spectators; there's a mezzanine overlooking the swimming pool, with big plexiglass windows to keep the humidity in (or out, depending on where you sit). The plexiglass was quite hard to see through, as it was covered in fingerprinty smudges, scratches, and condensation.

EVEN SO, my mother someone actually said to me: When did you start shaving your armpits? I noticed when you were swimming.

I was swimming backstroke, and from a hundred or so feet away, my mother AND THE ENTIRE WORLD could gaze upon my hairy armpits.

Excuse me whilst I go suck my thumb FOREVER.

In high school, I ran track for a while, and trust me, I use the word RUN very loosely. One time I got third place in the 800 or 1500 meter something or other, but only because the coach would not. shut. up. Moving on.

One of the local schools had, maybe still has, a very hairy coach. And I am not even kidding. I've created a high-quality illustration to make my point:

the other team's coach.
big brown dots = enormous quantity of hair.
yes, I think he had hair for feet.
and yes, locals, the color scheme just might be indicative of the team.

One look at that man changed my life forever. I began tweezing like a madwoman. I started shaving my arms. Yes, I said I shave my arms. Because there is no way I could continue to let the legacy of The Hairy Face Family pollute this beautiful earth we live on. My mother Someone said to me, You know once you start shaving your arms you'll never be able to stop because it will grow in thicker and more coarse and I replied THAT IS THE POINT. I WILL NEVER STOP. NEVER NEVER NEVEREVEREVEREVEREVER.

Uncle Lion Face, I'm sorry. I just can't.

Other random hairy relative, I believe there's a better way.

And to my biological mother, it's not that I don't appreciate what you've done for me. It's not that I'm really ashamed to associate with you, well, much, anyway. I just need to feel like a natural woman. And by natural, naturally I mean smooth and unhairy.

Because I can't grow up looking like grandma.

And I have to say unhairy, even though it's not a word, because oh my word, have you ever consulted The Googles about hai.ry in order to find pictures for a blog post about being hairy? I couldn't even read the first page or I would have gone straight to hell, no passing go, no $200.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

randomness. you've been warned.

Sweets is the most adorable creature ever to roll over on the face of this earth. I breathe him in, and subsequently exhale butterflies and unicorns. I revel in his very existence.

I would, however, enjoy sleeping more than one and a half hours at a stretch.


There was a class in college that wasn't really a for-credit class, but if you were a music ed major, you had to go or else things would get really ugly. I don't even remember what it was called, but ed major had to go. Sometimes we'd play BAND, sometimes we'd play CHOIR, and sometimes we'd play ORCHESTRA. Upperclassmen would take turns conducting whichever pitiful ensemble we'd concocted; I say pitiful because nobody was honking away on their major instruments.

Once when it was my turn to conduct, I went up to the podium and waved my baton and picked on the flutes, and did the other band director-ish things one does when one stands upon a podium. I was thinking really hard, and as a filler, whilst wrapping up my thoughts in my head and starting to speak all at the same time, I would start my sentences by saying OKAY.

At the end of my turn, there was a little critique-by-peers session. One girl, a clarinet major named Linda, said, You keep saying 'okay'. Everything's not okay.

Three years later, she was found dead in her apartment. She had hung herself. Her words still ring in my ears.


I made spaghetti sauce tonight from some of the tomatoes we canned. Today's version had onions, garlic, a green pepper, honey, thyme, oregano and basil. And also a really ridiculous amount of ground beef. I am craving beef like crazy. I will personally deliver a punch in the mouth to the person who asks if I'm pregnant.


Wee Man and HB really enjoy preschool. HB tells us he HATES!!!!! IT!!!! but his teachers swear he plays and laughs and cavorts and does all the stuff normal, happy children do when they like school.

We are going on a field trip to the apple orchard tomorrow. This means: CIDER!!! and DONUTS!!!! And also a 75% chance of rain and a high wind warning. Which means 100% chance that I'll be wearing my knee-high black wellies with white polka dots, and long underwear.


The Mister was named Employee of the Month at his workplace. So I bought him a slice of raspberry pie at the farmers' market today, and delivered it to said workplace to show my appreciation.

I was not named Employee of the Month at my workplace. So I bought myself a loaf of pizza bread at the farmers' market, and ate it on the way home from the farmers' market to show my appreciation.


I still have not seen the latest Harry Potter movie. And it grieves me.


That is all.

Sunday, October 4, 2009