Did I say we were leaving the hospital today? Scratch that. Thanks to yet ANOTHER son who has the audacity to be born with a blood type incompatible to mine, I am once again hanging out in a hospital room, sleeping (or mostly not) by the obnoxious blue light of the infant incubator and feeding on demand around the clock.
Is it too much to ask to have a child born who actually shares my blood type and doesn't try to rebel against me from birth in this way? Apparently so.
Yeah. Charlie had some mild jaundice. Thanks to our family history, the pediatrician decided to just keep him here and put him right under the lights to get rid of it right away. The hope is that just the one night should do it and we can go home in the morning.
Much as I will be sad to leave this lovely air conditioning, I really need to get home. Cubby, though he has been a trooper about spending so much Mommy-less time with Grandma and Daddy, is nonetheless still wondering what the hell is going on. Last thing he knew, Mommy was going to the doctor on Friday morning and would be home to put him down for his nap. Now here we are, three days later, and Mommy is still not home. And Daddy does not know the words to Brahms' "Lullaby" (and can't carry a tune even if he did). How is a boy supposed to go to sleep without Brahms' "Lullaby? With difficulty, apparently.
Anyway. Fingers crossed we get sprung tomorrow. Being subjected to an extended period of this hospital food is again a traumatic experience for me.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Know What We Haven't Talked Enough About?
The weather. I really feel there hasn't been enough bitching here about summer heat, don't you? And NOW, we can add a new and interesting dimension to the bitching with the arrival of the new baby. YAY!
I don't know what it is, but apparently I only give birth to extreme sons. Cubby was born in the winter. But not just in the winter; he was born during one of the worst stretches of winter weather we've had since living here. It literally snowed every day his first week of life, accompanied by wind and very low temperatures. Super for a newborn, let me tell you, especially in our house.
Charlie, in what is obviously his first assertion of differentiation from his older brother, decided to come during a particularly brutal heat wave. Not that this matters when I'm sitting in the climate-controlled hospital, but that little idyll ends in about three hours. And then it's home to our 85 degree bedroom, to cuddle close to a hungry little inferno all night long. I made the mistake of looking at the forecast. It's supposed to be 96 degrees on Tuesday.
I'm not going to look at the forecast again. It doesn't help my mental state.
But at least I'm not pregnant anymore! There's always a bright side.
I don't know what it is, but apparently I only give birth to extreme sons. Cubby was born in the winter. But not just in the winter; he was born during one of the worst stretches of winter weather we've had since living here. It literally snowed every day his first week of life, accompanied by wind and very low temperatures. Super for a newborn, let me tell you, especially in our house.
Charlie, in what is obviously his first assertion of differentiation from his older brother, decided to come during a particularly brutal heat wave. Not that this matters when I'm sitting in the climate-controlled hospital, but that little idyll ends in about three hours. And then it's home to our 85 degree bedroom, to cuddle close to a hungry little inferno all night long. I made the mistake of looking at the forecast. It's supposed to be 96 degrees on Tuesday.
I'm not going to look at the forecast again. It doesn't help my mental state.
But at least I'm not pregnant anymore! There's always a bright side.
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Let's Hear It for Technology
For it allows me to sit in a hospital bed and spew my usual drivel without missing a day! WHEE!
Hello, poppets. Guess what I did yesterday? Without going into unnecessarily gory details, I Brought Forth New Life. Once again without any pharmaceutical help whatsoever, leading me to once again have a very strong reaction of, "THANK GOD THAT'S OVER."
So there's this baby asleep in the bassinet beside me. He's been sleeping most of the time since his great entrance. And when he's not sleeping, he's nursing. Kid took to the milk like a natural.
His name, at least the one on his birth certificate, must, of course, remain top secret. But his blog name will be Charlie. That kind of goes with Cubby, right?
Right. And speaking of Cubby, that gigantic child (in comparison to the new one anyway) was just here for his introduction to Baby Brother. He took a good look, made some comments about babies drinking milk and crying, and then proceeded to bounce on the bed; play with the toys sent to him by his grandpa; attempt an escape to run wild through the halls of the maternity ward; eat the cupcakes the MiL made for us just this morning; and eventually sit on the bed with me to watch a few minutes of "The Many Adventures of Winnie-the-Pooh," courtesy of the very same wireless Internet that is bringing you this important update.
In other words, he ping-ponged off the walls for an hour and then whirled out of here like the dervish he is, leaving me contemplating with some trepidation my new reality of Cubby+baby.
But let's not think about that yet! At the moment, I am alone in an air conditioned room with only one sleeping child. I have cupcakes to eat, real coffee to drink (again courtesy of the MiL and the thermos she thoughtfully delivered when she came to visit), and Internet access. Not too shabby.
Plus, there's this baby here who seems to be practically perfect in every way. So yeah. You could say life is pretty good right now.
Hello, poppets. Guess what I did yesterday? Without going into unnecessarily gory details, I Brought Forth New Life. Once again without any pharmaceutical help whatsoever, leading me to once again have a very strong reaction of, "THANK GOD THAT'S OVER."
So there's this baby asleep in the bassinet beside me. He's been sleeping most of the time since his great entrance. And when he's not sleeping, he's nursing. Kid took to the milk like a natural.
His name, at least the one on his birth certificate, must, of course, remain top secret. But his blog name will be Charlie. That kind of goes with Cubby, right?
Right. And speaking of Cubby, that gigantic child (in comparison to the new one anyway) was just here for his introduction to Baby Brother. He took a good look, made some comments about babies drinking milk and crying, and then proceeded to bounce on the bed; play with the toys sent to him by his grandpa; attempt an escape to run wild through the halls of the maternity ward; eat the cupcakes the MiL made for us just this morning; and eventually sit on the bed with me to watch a few minutes of "The Many Adventures of Winnie-the-Pooh," courtesy of the very same wireless Internet that is bringing you this important update.
In other words, he ping-ponged off the walls for an hour and then whirled out of here like the dervish he is, leaving me contemplating with some trepidation my new reality of Cubby+baby.
But let's not think about that yet! At the moment, I am alone in an air conditioned room with only one sleeping child. I have cupcakes to eat, real coffee to drink (again courtesy of the MiL and the thermos she thoughtfully delivered when she came to visit), and Internet access. Not too shabby.
Plus, there's this baby here who seems to be practically perfect in every way. So yeah. You could say life is pretty good right now.
Friday, July 13, 2012
Okay, They're Forgiven
You may remember awhile ago, in an extensive bitch-session about the state of the garden, a passing mention of the irritating volunteer potatoes that seemed to have taken over one section of the garden.
Or you may have stopped reading before that. I don't blame you if you did.
ANYWAY.
Yes, the volunteer potatoes appeared to be entirely too zealous and yet not at all fruitful, leading me to denounce them to the world as nothing more than another irritation in a garden full of irritations.
But then yesterday Cubby and I dug some up. And, well, there were a LOT of potatoes out there. What I mean is, I dug up three or four of the biggest plants and got many good-sized potatoes for my effort. Considering my effort consisted solely of digging them and not actually planting them or mulching them or doing any work to make them grow, I was pretty pleased about that.
I ended up filling one of the big soup pots with these volunteers and boiling them all, not with any particular plan in mind, but just with the idea that it's never a bad thing to have a bunch of cooked potatoes in the refrigerator. And then I sliced some up with a dressing of yogurt, lemon juice, and garlic for dinner. And they were good. So those potatoes have redeemed themselves and I would like to publicly apologize to them for my negative attitude.
Incidentally, for those of you wondering what in the Sam Hill a nine-months-pregnant woman is doing digging potatoes . . . well. I like to eat potatoes. I wanted them. And considering I'm due on Sunday, I definitely do not care in the least if I induce labor with some strenuous activity. In fact, I would be delighted.
Maybe today I should try pulling all the head-high weeds in the rock-hard soil in the actual potato field. If anything would stimulate labor, it would be that. Or maybe it would just cripple me. I guess I'll stick to eating some more of my potatoes and just trust to luck that this kid comes sooner rather than later.
Or you may have stopped reading before that. I don't blame you if you did.
ANYWAY.
Yes, the volunteer potatoes appeared to be entirely too zealous and yet not at all fruitful, leading me to denounce them to the world as nothing more than another irritation in a garden full of irritations.
But then yesterday Cubby and I dug some up. And, well, there were a LOT of potatoes out there. What I mean is, I dug up three or four of the biggest plants and got many good-sized potatoes for my effort. Considering my effort consisted solely of digging them and not actually planting them or mulching them or doing any work to make them grow, I was pretty pleased about that.
I ended up filling one of the big soup pots with these volunteers and boiling them all, not with any particular plan in mind, but just with the idea that it's never a bad thing to have a bunch of cooked potatoes in the refrigerator. And then I sliced some up with a dressing of yogurt, lemon juice, and garlic for dinner. And they were good. So those potatoes have redeemed themselves and I would like to publicly apologize to them for my negative attitude.
Incidentally, for those of you wondering what in the Sam Hill a nine-months-pregnant woman is doing digging potatoes . . . well. I like to eat potatoes. I wanted them. And considering I'm due on Sunday, I definitely do not care in the least if I induce labor with some strenuous activity. In fact, I would be delighted.
Maybe today I should try pulling all the head-high weeds in the rock-hard soil in the actual potato field. If anything would stimulate labor, it would be that. Or maybe it would just cripple me. I guess I'll stick to eating some more of my potatoes and just trust to luck that this kid comes sooner rather than later.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
There May Be Another Barbecue In Our Future
Two days ago, A. separated the lambs from their mothers, moving the lambs into the paddock right next to the house. He did this for reasons of feeding. That is, the grass is toast for the most part and there were way too many animals in an area where the grass was already exhausted. So he moved the lambs near the house where he could supplement their feed and fatten them up for their imminent departure to foodland, leaving the remaining ten adult sheep to just eat the grass that remains in their pastures up back.
Good plan. Theoretically. In practice? My GOD, are those lambs IRRITATING.
They are literally thirty feet from our door. And they stand there pretty much all day long and yell. Actually, it's really only two of the eighteen that yell incessantly, but two is quite enough to make a ridiculous amount of noise. In addition to their proximity to the dining room door, they are also essentially right below Cubby's window. His open window. I have no idea how he manages to sleep through that noise, but thankfully, he does.
I, however, am not so able to tune it out. A. said the sound of lambs crying should make my maternal instincts kick in. It does not. All it does is make me wish A. would get another urge to grill some lamb. I know just the lambs for the occasion . . .
Good plan. Theoretically. In practice? My GOD, are those lambs IRRITATING.
They are literally thirty feet from our door. And they stand there pretty much all day long and yell. Actually, it's really only two of the eighteen that yell incessantly, but two is quite enough to make a ridiculous amount of noise. In addition to their proximity to the dining room door, they are also essentially right below Cubby's window. His open window. I have no idea how he manages to sleep through that noise, but thankfully, he does.
I, however, am not so able to tune it out. A. said the sound of lambs crying should make my maternal instincts kick in. It does not. All it does is make me wish A. would get another urge to grill some lamb. I know just the lambs for the occasion . . .
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Speaking of Edibility . . .
This has been a challenging summer when it comes to keeping the household fed. There are a few reasons for this. One being, of course, that whole gestating thing that makes elaborate cooking seem a huge waste of time when I could be lying on the couch eating my own special blend of peanuts and chocolate chips and re-reading a Barbara Michaels novel for the fifth time.
Also there is the toddler, who doesn't so much DO long periods of any one activity, including cooking; the lack of produce from the garden; and the heat.
In actual fact, the heat probably is the greatest limiting factor. I just cannot stand to turn the stove on when it's already 85 degrees in the kitchen with 75 percent humidity. The MiL can do this, and then sit in said hellish kitchen and eat the prepared meal with apparent enjoyment. Even if I manage to get something cooked, the last thing I want to do after doing the cooking is sit at the table in the kitchen and eat it with sweat running down my face.
So not appetizing.
Sadly, it is also not appetizing for me to sit down to a meal entirely comprised of salad or a sandwich. After a couple of days of scratch meals, everyone--including me--starts to feel as if the hunger will never be assuaged with anything but a real, honest-to-God cooked meal. To say nothing of the raging hunger A. is left with after expending five million calories nailing shingles onto the roof. No one who does that for five hours is going to be satisfied with tuna salad.
And that is why I have started using my Crockpot a lot.
I'm not really a huge fan of slow cookers. I feel like anything I make in a slow cooker tastes better made in the oven or on the stove. But when the stove and the oven are non-players, the Crockpot becomes the only way to cook a large hunk of beef. So at least once a week, I put a big chunk of (unbrowned--OH THE LAZINESS) meat in the Crockpot with onions and barbecue sauce or steak sauce or soy sauce or hoisin sauce--or whatever cheater already-in-the-bottle sauce can be dumped directly in that bad boy--plug the Crockpot in in the shop to keep its heat from affecting the kitchen, and sit back on my lazy haunches. It takes approximately five minutes in the morning and there is cooked food at the end of the day.
I'm not going to pretend it's anything but desperation cooking, but when the options are Crockpot chuck roast or . . . eggs again, the Crockpot is a pretty good option.
Someday I'll again be able to cook the way I like to, but not today. And not tomorrow. But someday I can relegate the Crockpot back to the far reaches of the pantry and get to know my Dutch oven again. And that will be a happy day indeed.
Also there is the toddler, who doesn't so much DO long periods of any one activity, including cooking; the lack of produce from the garden; and the heat.
In actual fact, the heat probably is the greatest limiting factor. I just cannot stand to turn the stove on when it's already 85 degrees in the kitchen with 75 percent humidity. The MiL can do this, and then sit in said hellish kitchen and eat the prepared meal with apparent enjoyment. Even if I manage to get something cooked, the last thing I want to do after doing the cooking is sit at the table in the kitchen and eat it with sweat running down my face.
So not appetizing.
Sadly, it is also not appetizing for me to sit down to a meal entirely comprised of salad or a sandwich. After a couple of days of scratch meals, everyone--including me--starts to feel as if the hunger will never be assuaged with anything but a real, honest-to-God cooked meal. To say nothing of the raging hunger A. is left with after expending five million calories nailing shingles onto the roof. No one who does that for five hours is going to be satisfied with tuna salad.
And that is why I have started using my Crockpot a lot.
I'm not really a huge fan of slow cookers. I feel like anything I make in a slow cooker tastes better made in the oven or on the stove. But when the stove and the oven are non-players, the Crockpot becomes the only way to cook a large hunk of beef. So at least once a week, I put a big chunk of (unbrowned--OH THE LAZINESS) meat in the Crockpot with onions and barbecue sauce or steak sauce or soy sauce or hoisin sauce--or whatever cheater already-in-the-bottle sauce can be dumped directly in that bad boy--plug the Crockpot in in the shop to keep its heat from affecting the kitchen, and sit back on my lazy haunches. It takes approximately five minutes in the morning and there is cooked food at the end of the day.
I'm not going to pretend it's anything but desperation cooking, but when the options are Crockpot chuck roast or . . . eggs again, the Crockpot is a pretty good option.
Someday I'll again be able to cook the way I like to, but not today. And not tomorrow. But someday I can relegate the Crockpot back to the far reaches of the pantry and get to know my Dutch oven again. And that will be a happy day indeed.
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