people, i am handwashing the diapers this week

I have taken the Flats Challenge (aka #flatschallenge).  Flats, for those of you who hate the earth and all that is good and pure, are large squares of cloth that, when folded up, are Superty! Great! For! Catching! Crap!

Oh stop being horrified. You had to know that I would mention crap if I was writing about diapering.  Right?  Except for the new people, maybe, and new people?  I have a tendency to overuse the CRAP word.  

So.

There are people who re-use disposable diapers.  And that is way disgusting.  I'm not being all Judgy McJudgerson here, and calling PEOPLE disgusting.  I'm just saying that shaking out the crap and slapping that wet thing back on the backside of a real live person I had expelled from my places is just not anything I would ever do.  I'd sooner duct tape the short person to the toilet.

Wait... duct tape the short person to the ... why didn't I think of that eight years ago??? 

Stop. I am neither actually considering duct taping people to the can, nor am I wishing I'd already duct taped my progeny to the can.  Really, people.

In order to prove that people with no money and no washing machine can cloth diaper, Kim from Dirty Diaper Laundry threw down the gauntlet.  Use only flat diapers and covers, and handwash.  Now people, I'm telling you STRAIGHT UP that there is no way on God's Green that I would ever actually handwash crapcatchers with my ACTUAL HANDS.  Oh. No.

So.  I went to the local purveyor of all things hardware-related, and got me a 5 gallon paint bucket with a lid, and a plunger.  And I batted my eyelashes all pretty and The Mister drilled me a hole in the lid of the bucket so I could make my very own butter-churn-ish-diaper-washer.  It's pretty great.  (cost: $11)

And then.  I looked in my basement and found the box of old receiving blankets I had stashed away.  Because honestly, people, receiving blankets seem like a really great idea when you're about to birth a short person, but they are pretty much useless.  

Unless you find yourself in the #FlatsChallenge.  Then you wash those puppies up and fold 'em just so and stick 'em on the backside of the nearest non-toilet-trained individual in your home.  Except Grandma.  Don't try to use receiving blankets to diaper your grandma.  They're WAY too small ... or Grandma's poop is way too... 

Oh, never mind.

So.  I spent $11 making a washing machine, and $0 on diapers.  I have two or three Snappis ($6 ish) that I'm using to keep things all pinned up, and I'm using two Thirsties Duo Size 2 covers ($14 ish each) and three wool soakers that I made from two thrifted sweaters ($2 each, plus 20 minutes).  I already had the Snappis, the Thirsties covers, and the soakers, so this has been a pretty inexpensive experiment.  If I had purchased everything new, I'd have spent just shy of $50.

Pictures tomorrow.  Honest.  This isn't like the last time I posted and said I'd post something the next day, but then I didn't because of the things and the stuff and the excessive amount of time I spent vomiting.  

Oh, right.  I didn't tell you about that.  You're welcome!

friday the thirteenth, also the thirty-fourth

Y'all, today is my birthday.  And I was out having way too much fun to even talk to you about it.  Also, motherhucking Blogger was a little too NOT ACTUALLY WORKING for me to even talk to you about it.

But let's not talk about *that* little EPIC FAIL.

Usually I post a list of things I want for my birthday.  But this year, I have something very different in mind.

Is your curiosity piqued?  Hmmm???  Maybe just a little?

Tomorrow evening, people.  I will tell you tomorrow evening.  It's completely awesome.

first smarshmallow roast

some items for your consideration, version IX

1. There are 18 peeping chicks in a plastic tote on my front porch.  They drink a lot of water and they poop a lot.  And their poop smells.  Bad.  However, none of these things will keep me from eating most of them.  
2. Wee Man has learned to read, and really, I am happy about this.  Green Eggs and Ham is just not as thrilling the nine millionth consecutive time it's been read to you, that's all.  And also, sometimes I receive text messages that are not entirely appropriate for my children to read.  Mostly because it's just none of their stinking business, but sometimes, well, you can imagine, I'm sure.  
3. I actually lost followers after my happy effing Mother's Day post.  Hmmm.
4. The Mister took matters into his own hands and called the doctor's office and got me an appointment on Saturday.  I'm taking LOTS! MORE! and DIFFERENT! drugs so hopefully my head will stop hurting and I will stop praying for death or decapitation.
5. Just to be clear, I'm not actually praying for death or decapitation. 
6. I built a compost bin using only metal stakes, pallets, and my own brute strength.  I also pulled several abdominal muscles and cried like a little girl.
7. My birthday is on Friday.  Yes, FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTH.  As it happens, I was born on Friday the thirteenth as well.  And my thirteenth birthday was on Friday the thirteenth.  That's why I'm so FREAKISHLY AWESOME.
8. I spent all of Friday the Fifth photographing the piles of items for my Etsy shop.  And I have spent hours and hours since then, except for when I was ruining my six-pack abs making a compost pile, sifting through photos and editing and listing items.  You should totally check out my shop and buy everything so I can finish buying my new sewing machine.   I even put up two photographs because I was feeling bold.
9. Cute photo.

there should have been a memo.

We got up with plenty of time to get to church at the appointed hour.  People were fed.  People were dressed.  People's hair got did.  Well, my hair got itself did, and even if that's the only hair that's did, we're calling that a win.  Shoes were being put on and tied when I noticed that nothing Miss O was wearing was a) clean, b) matchy-matchy, or c) fit her.  I decided to call out the clean and ill-fitting garmentry.

Me:  Gentle Calling Out of Ill-Fitting and Stained Clothing

Her:  MEGA-FREAKING-CRAZY-ASS-FLIP-OUT.

Me:  Slightly Less Gentle Calling Out of Both Clothing Issues and Behavioral Blowout

Her: I HATE YOU, YOU PSYCHO CRAZY PERSON WITH NO SENSE OF STYLE.

Me:  Those Clothes Are Fine For The Mud Pit But Not So Much For Church.  

Her: GRATUITOUS RETURN-FIRE SCREAMING

Me: etc., etc.

So she changed her shirt.  Now the ensemble included a (yes, also stained) Habitat for Humanity t-shirt, men's size large in robin's egg blue, the same ridiculous skirt that was sliding southward, and puddle boots.   Same conversation, lather, rinse, repeat.  Child returns with a sweater vest that hits a good inch above her belly button, which also exacerbates the situation because now we all can view the undergarments which reside below the south-slipping skirt.  

New! Conversation!  Visible belly buttons and visible undergarments are not appropriate to wear in public, especially in church.  Have you ever seen me with my belly button or undertrou hanging out in church?  Grandma?  Anybody?  I think not.  Well, except that one teenaged girl who has a serious Proper Foundation Garment Situation going on, in addition to a Proper Location of the Hemline Situation going on.  We're using her as an example of WHAT NOT TO WEAR.   

There was no further attempt at compliance on her part, so I chose a very appropriate and adorable outfit and  dressed her like a Kewpie doll and kicked her ass out the door to church.  

At church?  The boys were horrific.  I WANT TO FINGER-KNIT!!!! in the middle of silent praying.  Hello, there, underside of the pew, you're looking good!  Running, screaming, general jackholery.   It was unreal. 

They were even worse once we got home.  Beating the crap out of each other, running away, knocking Elliott into mud holes, hitting each other with thorn sticks, more dropping of the eggs, chasing chickens, refusing to wash the eleventy seven pounds of mud off, kicking me in the face with their wretched muddy feet when I (so, so gently) carried them up to their beds.

All the while, my phone was dinging with updates from the Effbooks:  

DING!!! My sweetie-honey-pies made me honey whipped cream topped chai lattes in bed.  

DING!!!  I haven't changed a diaper ALL!  DAY!  

DING!!!  MMMMmmmmm.... chocolate covered strawberries!  

DING!!!  My kids love me!  

DING!!! My kid did what I asked whilst singing "happy mother's day, my dearest darlingest motherest!!!"

Oh.My.Word.  I did not tell my children it was effing Mother's Day.  I'm not really into the whole "It's Mother's Day, so you little shits should get your acts together and be nice to me."  What I *AM* into is the whole "you live in this world so you should get your acts together and be nice in general".  All your ding-dong-ey-ness was making me a little bit jealous, though. all you people with cute, nice children who were well-prepped to be superty nice to you on effing Mother's Day.

Finally, at 2:30 in the afternoon, The Mister arrived home from work, the three boys were on Mandatory Nap that was going to last until I had taken a lovely nap, and then, and only then, would they be allowed out of bed.  I had my first cup of coffee of the day, with cream and vanilla bourbon sugar, and I was on the sofa under my superty comfy cozy loving quilt that has no elbows and does not climb on me.  I took a sip and closed my eyes.  I sighed.

I must have dozed off because the next thing I knew, Elliott was charging up to me, and head butted my full mug of boiling hot coffee from underneath so that the entire cup of coffee flew up in the air and then down the front of my shirt.

I ripped my clothes of faster and louder than a stripper in a rage comic, threw the baby at the husband and buried myself back under my superty comfy cozy loving quilt that has no elbows and does not climb on me and also does not spill hot coffee on my breasts.  

And then I napped.  

Happy Effing Mother's Day, y'all.  

so that happened.

I had the mother of all migraines yesterday.  I woke up with it, which is worse than if I get a migraine when I'm awake, not sure why, but that's just how my brain rolls.  I couldn't sit up, couldn't open my eyes, couldn't do anything that would facilitate getting drugs in my bloodstream.  Fortunately, Miss O came into my bedroom when she woke up, and gladly fetched me a glass of water and my drugs.  The f!or!nal wasn't as effective as normal, but it took enough of the edge off that I could go downstairs and clean up the three broken eggs and one shattered glass from my kitchen floor.

Because nothing says THROW MAMA A BONE, HERE, PEOPLE, like dropping eggs on the floor.

It was just a day.  

I had an appointment to meet with my doctor to discuss how I've been having non-stop brain pain for almost 20 days.  Because really?  That's a bit much.  Except when you take a full-on dose of the happy pills, and then another full-on dose four hours later because the first dose didn't actually work, you have WAY TOO MUCH narcotic-ish stuff in your blood to operate a motor vehicle.  And also, you're probably not real good with conducting a conversation, either, so what's the point.  

They can see me next Friday.  As in TEN DAYS FROM TODAY.  By that time, I'll have had a headache for a full month, and have been alone with my children about 93% of that time.  Not that the two are related.  Maybe they are.  I think the children are more of an exacerbator than a cause, if you want my professional opinion.

*****

In other news, it's still cold and rainy in my neck of the woods.  So much so, that I'm seriously considering breaking the neck of my woods and finding another a) neck or b) woods.

*****

Exacerbator sounds dirty.

conflicted

I was watching the news tonight, as I'm sure many of you were, waiting to hear President Obama declare Osama bin Laden's death.  I listened to the diplomatic analysis, the future safety of Americans analysis, the what-the-Pakistanis-think analysis, and I was surprised that I didn't feel a little more excited.  

Because really, bin Laden was a murderous bastard and shouldn't I be glad, at least a little bit, that he is dead?  

Miss O came downstairs, because nothing says "I don't respect your boundaries for bedtime" like nineteen trips down the stairs to fetch nineteen different things, but I digress.  She wrinkled her nose and asked what was on the television. 

There was a terrorist, a man who crashed four airplanes into buildings, because he wanted to hurt people...

Mom, I know what a terrorist is.

It was kind of like a punch in the stomach.  I know my short people are superty smart, and I shouldn't be surprised that she knows what a terrorist is.  We don't watch the news, we don't discuss war or murderous bastards or related subjects.  I try to keep that stuff off my people's radars.  (People's radar??? Where are the grammar police when I need them!)

We talked about the events of 11 September, 2001; I told her about the planes and the people who died.  I told her about the heroic efforts of the passengers of Flight 93 who prevented more death and destruction by giving their own lives.  I told her that bin Laden was proud of what he had orchestrated that day, and that he boldly took ownership of the carnage.

He pretty much had it coming, huh, mama?

Yep, kid, he sure did.

And yet I wonder: does anybody really feel better now that he's dead?  Or are victims' families going to wake up tomorrow and find that the news of his death leaves them with an odd sort of emptiness?  Their loved ones are still dead.  Al Qaeda is still there; al Quaeda still hates everybody.  

There is no safety that comes from this murder, justified as it may have been, and I say may have been justified because in my deepest spirit, I am not entirely sure where I stand on the issue.  My instincts hate that we kill people.  I hate the execution in the same way I hate the reason for the execution, and I cannot compare the costs of either.

My kid knows about terrorists.  I hate that most of all.