Bad Mother of the Week Award

As I packed our bag for ball practice tomorrow night, I had to smile. We’re getting the hang of this. We’re not half bad, really. Well, most of the time. Monday wasn't what you'd call a "stellar" parenting moment. It's not quite Bad Mother of the Year quality (wouldn't want to peak too early in the year), but of the week? Yeah. You see, Monday, John was doing so well. He was hitting and running. Throwing and catching. Cheering and talking imaginary, mostly polite, 6-year old smack. He was a man possessed by the love of the sport. Until they put him on third base, which is about the same time I lost it.

Suddenly, the kid turned into Jack Sparrow. He was weaving and dodging, swiping at some invisible (to us) foe just above his head. The look on his face was an exact replica of Capt’n Jack – a mix of suspicion, irritation, and general confusion. I started to chuckle.

And then, I made the worst mistake you can make when you’re laughing and really oughtn’t be: I tried to stifle it. Might as well feed a gremlin in a pool at two in the morning. It was over. Soon I was cackling between sucking breaths. Tears bubbled up over my lids, and splashed down onto my cheeks. Just when I thought I had myself composed enough to join the practice again, I’d look up in time to see him sidestep and stumble over the base. Arms flailing. Eyes squinty and leering, chin set. And all composure was lost. My final hope of getting it together died instantly when a batter fielded a ball straight past him, and he didn’t notice until a hoard of children flew past him, all duck-walking to catch the ball. He spun around, cocked his head toward the children and then began swiping at the unseen foe. I was a goner.

Zorak chuckled a little at first, too. Then he started to ignore me. I’m pretty sure he scootched over at some point because when I toppled over onto his arm, it wasn’t there. Finally, he gave me the, “have you been drinking” stare, and that sobered me up somewhat. Well, that’s about when practice ended, too, so that may have helped.

For the record, no alcohol was imbibed at, or before this practice. Turns out there were mosquitos buzzing around John’s head at third base. After he’d been bitten by one, he determined there was no way he was going to let another one so much as land on him. Suddenly, his behavior makes a world of sense. And mine? Well, what do you want to bet someone slips me an AA tract after the next parent meeting?

But it was funny.

I do love that John Boy. Thankfully, that part’s a given, so when his parents occasionally perform a stunningly moronic slip, it’s easier to forgive. And, as James pointed out, I wasn’t laughing at him, I was laughing at the action. Yeah, I like that. But I still expect the award to arrive sometime this week.

Kiss those babies!
~Dy

From the stack...

I'm reading Mark Twain's The Innocents Abroad. Most of the time, I'm laughing. Heartily. From my toes. It's like reading letters from my snarky brother on his travels. But, then, I amble across a tidbit of wisdom, or insight, that hauls me up short. Stills my laughter. Reminds me what made Mark Twain one of America's eminent story tellers. Makes me think. I found this tonight, and wanted to share it here.

When an acre of ground has produced long and well, we let it lie fallow and let it rest for a season; we take no man clear across the continent in the same coach he started in -- the coach is stabled somewhere on the plains and its heated machinery is allowed to cool for a few days; when a razor has seen long service and refuses to hold an edge, the barber lays it away for a few weeks, and the edge comes back of its own accord. We bestow thoughtful care upon inanimate objects, but none upon ourselves. What a robust people, what a nation of thinkers we might be, if we would only lay ourselves on the shelf occasionally and renew our edges.

Wisdom, indeed.

Kiss those babies!
~Dy

Red Wasp Control

First, you cleverly disguise an entrance for the wasps. Hide it so well that even you have no idea where it is.

Then you let the wasps in, one at a time. This method works best if you make sure you have a decent alarm system. A child who has been stung before works well, but if you haven't got one of those, any child who reads voraciously and proceeds to freak out about the possibilities of, say, a cobra attack in North America ("but someone could have smuggled one into the country!") will work just as well.

When the alarm sounds, you simply leap from the floor, sending the small ones flying (some head for cover, some simply roll right off your lap) and grab your trusty fly swatter. The wasp will likely show you to it, landing quietly just. by. the. handle.

Begin the umpteenth search for bug spray this week (which you haven't got, and never remember to put on the list until you're mid-battle, of course). In a pinch, Lysol works relatively well. More of a mental boost than any actual help, but that's okay.

Now, exude confidence. Express to your small ones that it's only a small wasp. It's okay. It doesn't want to be here (anymore than you do), and that it won't hurt you if you stay still. Unless, of course, you make it mad by spraying it with Lysol. (Small, of course, also being a relative term. They don't need to know that its red body bouncing off the walls looks, from your vantage point, particularly large and invincible. And angry.)

And so, you begin. Wait. Smack. Spray. Smack. Leap! If you'd like to do it the way I do it, which is truly quite exciting for all involved, shut one eye. This will eliminate any of that pesky depth perception some people have which allows them to hit the wasp on any attempt in the single digits. If, however, you happen to be fond of your depth perception, well, I can't blame you. I'd use it if I had it, too. Smack. Spray. Smack. DIVE! And so on.

Red wasps have incredibly hard bodies. It's amazing how quickly your standard store-bought fly swatter will crumple and bow beneath the impact, while the wasp will only glare at you and start dancing a jig above your head. But if you have the cardiovascular strength to keep up, you will eventually be able so show your small ones the corpse. And they always want to see it. I don't know why. It's not impressive. Honestly, for all the pomp involved, it's more than a little humiliating to have only that to show for it, but they insist on viewing the vanquished foe. (And am I the only one who cringes the entire time with fear that it's not Really Dead, but only playing oppossum and waiting to poke one of my children in the eye with lightning speed before I can reach the Lysol again?)

The house is wasp-free for another hour or so. It smells clean and antiseptic now, too. Ah, I love Springtime in the South!

Kiss those babies!
~Dy

This is a recording.

You have reached the blog of Dy. She is not at home right now, because she is in the barn, or at the ballfield, or en route to town.

Other people do these things, and do them with many more children in tow, and still remain articulate beyond suppertime. Yes, she knows this. (And if she were still articulate tonight, she would agree.) She is, however, a slow learner (remember, that's why God only gave her one at a time, no?) Plus, the typing-related speech impediment from her wound has reduced her to thinking in terms of spelling out entire words as she hen-pecks the keys. This new glitch, it seems, renders paragraphical thought a mere notion. Humor or wisdom are likewise out of reach for the time being.

Please leave a message at the bottom and she will get back to you when EmBaby leaves for college, or the splint comes off, whichever comes. Eventually.

Kiss those babies!
~Dy

Not so bright, and not so stoopid

Not so bright: I sliced the meat off the third knuckle on my middle finger today. Stoopid, stoopid thing to do. Knew better, but sometimes we just get so comfortable in the things we do to stop thinking about the things we know. Thankfully, it was a sharp knife, and everything could be put back in place fairly accurately. I'll leave it splinted for a couple of days, hopefully it'll stick back together okay. Please pardon typos over the next few entries. I had no idea how integral to the typing process that middle finger is!

Not so stoopid: Evidently, Balto should have been named Houdini. We had company for supper tonight. Fresh children to herd - WOOHOO! So, we let him in the house after supper, while the children played outside. But, no, that would not do. The in-and-out traffic through the front door was just too heavy to expect him not to make a break for it and succeed. SO, we put him in the basement. Not fifteen minutes later, there he was, skulking along among the iris and daffodils, heading straight for all the fun! I took him back in, flipped the two locks on the basement doors, leaned a cinder block against the door, propped a pallet under the door knob, and braced that with a mongo extendo-ladder/scaffold combo. As I emerged from the basement into the hallway, I commented (half in jest) that if he can get out of that, he's a genius.

Well, he's a genius. Who knew? He's out there, now, rolling happily in the grass.

And so, another weekend ends.

We made a lot of progress on the Forever Yard. The mystery tree from last week is in bloom right now, so it looks like it's hearty enough to have survived the frost. (Yay!) Zorak has the forms almost done for the first garden bed. The pile for the chipper is growing impressively. The barn is nearly cleaned and ready to earn its keep. Zorak's already making plans for fencing, and our first cow-calf operation. It looks like I've lost my argument that goats are smaller (and thus, less intimidating to, erm, the small children... yeah, the kids...) But all taken, things are looking good. Feeling good.

The children ran wild for hours today, thoroughly enjoying their friends and this beautiful Southern spring weather. Sleepy children seem not to notice the time change, and so, they slipped to bed without complaint. I think we will have to make it a tradition to spend the first day of Daylight Savings Time BBQ'ing with friends, running the children into a dreamy, happy, exausted sleep come evening. Quite nice.

And now, I am off to continue traveling with Mr. Twain, who has left Tangier, and is headed for points further East.

Kiss those babies!
~Dy

Tell me this wasn't planted on purpose!?!?!?

There are three different plants in there, but the one I'm asking about is the thick, stalky one in the foreground with the greenish, reddish coloring and no leaves. Can you see the thorns on that thing? Oy! Zorak and I look like we've taken up Olympic cat tossing.

There's another one among them that has tiny, curved hooks that are sharp and hard. Possibly barbed. I suspect evil, as well. Particularly the one that reached down and nabbed me in the hollow on the back of my neck while I wrestled with the reddish ones above - ohhhh, okay. Strike that. Zorak just informed me that they're one and the same. These things get whip-like near the end. Yeouch!

And that means there are only two plants in that photo. So, then, what's this stuff, with the leaves?

If you run into it, castor oil is incredibly soothing on the injuries inflicted by these plants.

Kiss those babies!
~Dy

Old Mrs. Cook

Today, we scarred the boys (but only slightly) by dragging them to the hayloft. Smidge is the only one who went up willingly, at first. (But that boy has more adventure than sense, sometimes.) Once they got up there... nope, still not thrilled. We began to wonder if these are, in fact, our children. When Zorak and I were kids, you couldn't have pried us out of a spot like that. But then, the magic began to come alive..
For all the times we've worried that James has grown too old for some adventures, it's a soothing balm to hear a wee voice shout from behind the fence, "I'll be up in the loft!"

The majority of the upper level of the barn is oak. It's dry, sturdy, and well-built. Pretty neat, up there.

We've been looking for a burn barrel, and today we found one. In. The. Creek. *sigh* The yahoos who had this place before us were just jackasses. It's going to take us a good five years to remove all the trash they left strewn about the property. However, the more we work on our Forever Home, the more attached the boys become to "Old Mrs. Cook". She and her husband built the Forever Home, 35 years ago. She was known among the neighbors for her cooking and hospitality. It was she who most likely planted the pear tree, the apple trees, and the chokecherry bushes. It was she who nurtured the place in all its horticultural glory. The shrubbery was probably her idea, and the terraced garden down below was most definitely hers. It was another family who trashed the place, in between the Cooks and our family, but the more we do, the more we find ourselves attached to "Old Mrs. Cook". Today, we found something amidst the hidden landscaping alluded to earlier in the week. See that... No, not the tires. (Although that is a mighty impressive collection, isn't it?) The rectangular flat spot to the right of the monkey grass. See that? That's a patio! We'll get better pictures once we've got it cleaned off (it took us five hours to get to that point, today), but you can see there are some lovely rocks embedded in the patio.
She had a secluded, shaded spot (before the shade tree was overtaken by that climbing stuff and succumbed to despair), down by the barn, where she could sit and relax while... I don't know, while the kids worked the horses? While Mr. Cook worked in the barn? Perhaps a tea break after working in the garden, herself? We don't know. But it's fun to guess.

Tomorrow, I'll need more help identifying the dangerous, man-eating vines that are growing down along that fence. Right now, I'm going to go find the witch hazel and castor oil and see if I can stem the bloodflow.

Kiss those babies!
~Dy

Not With My Child

So our previous dentist decided he could not address John's and Smidge's dental needs (after extensive costs on our part), and recommended a pedodontist to have the work done. I called the insurance company, called the denstists on the list, and made an appointment with one whose office staff said they could certainly address the situation. When I shared my excitement with a friend, she said, "You mean you found one who would let you go back with the boys?"

What? I didn't even ask. What kind of a set-up would that be? I'd heard of the occasional dentist not permitting parents to go back, and the reasoning usually ran along the lines of "I am the child's care provider, and he needs to develop a relationshp directly with me." (Parents get in the way, essentially.) Well, ok, if a parent chooses to submit to a policy like that, that's fine and dandy. I'm not among them, so I thought I would call to confirm.

Good thing I called. But now, they've changed their line of reasoning. "It's a HIPA ruling. It's the law."

It's "the law" that the parent of an unemancipated minor cannot be present during exams and treatment? Um, no. Not exactly.

Firstly, HIPA addresses "privacy" with regard to the patient's files. It does lay out the framework for very specific cases in which a parent may not retain the rights and responsibilities of a minor's legal representative. Of the 60+ pages I've read of the Act thus far, suspected neglect/abuse, court order giving representative rights to someone other than the parent, and treatment for mental health when the child desires it and the parents do not are the only three specifically named conditions wherein a parent's right of representation may be removed by third parties. Parental consent to release responsibility is the fourth. All of which are set forth very clearly, and with precedented understanding and foreknowledge by all parties. I'm not going to tackle HIPA itself today, but only this specific point:

Nothing in HIPA authorizes a health care provider to deny a parent the rights of representation for the minor without cause.

Do not let a health care provider tell you that you cannot be present for your child's treatment due to HIPA privacy acts. If you allow it, then you have rescinded your rights under one of the specific provisions in the Act: express permission for the provider to bypass your representation. I have yet to find anything that cites rectification of the process when that permission was given based on faulty information, and I suspect that future searches will yield the same results.

When a provider denies you the right to be present for treatment, consultation, or examination right off the bat, that provider is acting unethically, if not unlawfully. If that provider tells you that it is the law, find another provider. You are being duped. Unfortunately, we are all too often unaware of our rights, what few remain, and our ignorance is going to completely strip us of our rights and responsibilities, in the end. When a harried parent is informed by a brusque staff member that something is a federal regulation, how many parents are readily armed with subsection and paragraph citation to counter it? (I also wonder how properly the staff are being educated. This isn't to say there is an onslaught by receptionists nationwide to participate in the Agenda of removing parents from the parental role. I honestly believe they are simply taught this, and thus propgate it.)

You can read the full text here. (It's a .pdf file.) Truthfully, the devils are in the details.

But not with my child, they won't. And we did find a dentist who isn't on the Gov't in loco parentis bandwagon.

Kiss those babies!
~Dy
Dy

Oh, Freud!!

Tonight, in the chaos that engulfs the church hall after Pioneer Club, I shouted to the boys to hut-hut, as we had to stop at the grocery store on the way home. One of the ladies beside me did a double-take and burst out laughing. She admitted she'd thought I'd told them we had to swing by the liquor store. *chuckle* I must look really tired.

There will be some changes in the way we approach the sorting of our days. I'm looking forward to that, but right now, am too tired to even remember what we agreed upon, let alone share it here.

And so, I'll leave you with a cute joke that landed in my inbox this week.

A mom was concerned about her Kindergarten son walking to school. He didn't want his mother to walk with him. She wanted to give him the feeling that he had some independence, but yet know that he was safe.

So, she had an idea of how to handle it. She asked a neighbor if she would please follow him to school in the mornings, staying at a distance, so he probably wouldn't notice her.

She said that since she was up early with her toddler anyway, it would be a good way for them to get some exercise as well, so she agreed.

The next school day, the neighbor and her little girl set out following behind Timmy as he walked to school with another neighbor boy he knew. She did this for the whole week.

As the boys walked and chatted, kicking stones and twigs, Timmy's little friend noticed the same lady was following them as she seemed to do every day all week. Finally, he said to Timmy, "Have you noticed that lady following us to school all week? Do you know her"?

Timmy nonchalantly replied, "Yeah, I know who she is."

The friend said, "Well, who is she"?

"That's just Shirley Goodnest," Timmy replied. "And her daughter Marcy."

"Shirley Goodnest? Who the heck is she and why is she following us"?

"Well," Timmy explained. "Every night, my mom makes me say the 23rd Psalm with my prayers, because she worries about me so much. And in the Psalm, it says, 'Shirley Goodnest and Marcy shall follow me all the days of my life,' so I guess I'll just have to get used to it!"

Kiss those babies!
~Dy