New year, new blog

I've been talking about it for a while, but I've finally set up my WordPress blog.

https://entertainingmess.wordpress.com

I've exported all of these entries to the new blog, and will update there from now on. Forgive the dust; I'm still learning how to use WordPress, so will probably be tweaking the layout for a while. Hope to see you there!

Birth stories

I can tell by the gentle whoosh of air that the title of this post just sent about half of you dashing out the door. Which is fine. Birth stories aren't for everyone.

For those who are left, here is a great birth story I just read. I cannot remotely relate to it, but then again I can. As can anyone who has given birth. (Just read it...it's funny. Great blog.)

My birth stories are kind of dull. I had moments of timing contractions, sure, but they didn't come to anything. There was no gush of water, no frantic dash to the hospital. No dramatic entrance, no raised voices. Each time I gave birth, it was more like a doctor's appointment. I sat in a waiting room, then was calmly led to another room to be prepped, then wait some more. I even had time (and the pain relievers) to be bored.

Nobody talks about boredom in association with childbirth. Certainly not one of the parents, and definitely not the mother. But I'm here to tell you I was bored during labor.

I've known people who know every detail of their entrance into the world. (I am one of them.) I've also known people who barely know what town they were born in.

Most of what fiction tells us of childbirth is the same tale, over and over. The water breaking. Mayhem. Slapstick comedy, or violins and drama. Screaming, too...always screaming.

I didn't scream. Not once. I cried, both times. But that's as close to the stereotypical "lady in childbirth" as I came.

I think it's important that we mothers tell our stories, rather than letting writers retell the same tired yarn over and over. Because not all birth is the same. Because there is too much secrecy about it. (I had to find out from a comedian that there was a good chance I'd poop during labor.* Seriously...this is need-to-know information, people.)

My kids will know everything. I went through a lot to bring them here, and I want them to know that. I am hoping they will have children of their own someday, and I want them to know what to expect.

Besides, every superhero needs an origin story.


*I didn't, by the way. One of the bennies of the hack-and-slash approach to childbirth. There aren't many, so you take them where you can.

Because everyone deserves a second chance

Anya and I were reading her "big sister" book.

Me: You are such a good big sister.

Anya: Yeah.

Me: I always wanted to be a big sister, you know, but I never got to be.

Anya: Oh yeah?

Me: Yep. I used to ask for a little brother or sister every year for Christmas. But I never got one. That's why I am so happy that we have baby Kai.

Anya: Yeah. But you will be a big sister someday!

Me: Um...I think that ship has sailed. Mimi is too old to have babies now.

Anya: But when I am a big girl, I will have a baby in my tummy, and it will be a girl, and it will be you! And then you will be a little girl, and I will have a baby Kai in my tummy, and then you will have a cute-cute baby brother! And then you will get to be a big sister.

Me: Really?

Anya: Yep!

Me: Well, okay then! I can't wait.

Why I wish I'd had the internet as a kid

When I was a child, I loved going to the library. The bookstore was my favorite -- all those brand-new books, organized by genre, just waiting to come home and carry me away on new adventures -- but the library was far more vast. It wasn't just fiction; there were books on all topics. My favorites were the how-to books. Projects and patterns. Origami. Science experiments. Recipes. I ate it up. My local bookstore likely had some of these sorts of books, too, but nothing like the selection the library had.

But I lived in a very small town -- neither the library nor my local bookstore held a candle to what is now available on the internet. Which is why it frustrates me so that my daughter spends most of her internetting watching adults open and play with kids' toys.

Still, I don't restrict screen time, and other than the parental controls (oh, okay, and the occasional nerve-grating video) don't ban her from watching anything because I don't want her to get secretive about her viewing. I feel that the way to protect her from the darker side of the internet later on is to create a level of trust now. Also, I believe that kids learn best when you step back and let them. So I do.

And day by day, I am seeing evidence that she is at least occasionally using her tablet to learn. Like this.

She calls this Strawberry Swirl.

She watched a video on repurposing eos balm containers, and then took it upon herself to create new balms by mixing up chunks of her (quite impressive, really) lip balm collection. We are addicted to eos balms around here, so she had quite a few containers to fill. And fill them she has. Considering the fact that a) she is four, and b) she's never done anything like this before, I think she did a really good job. (I am studiously avoiding the mess in her "lab," and trying not to think about the dress she ruined making her new balms. Focus on the pride, Mommy.)

A while back, I pinned a recipe for making lip balm that uses these eos containers. I haven't tried it yet, but I've been meaning to. Now I know who to go to for pointers.

Growth spurts

Over the weekend, the fact that my children are growing was particularly evident. Anya, while she still had her Terrible Fours moments, was unusually mature and helpful. She listened. She did as I asked. She helped. She cleaned her room, ate healthy snacks instead of begging for junk food, and -- what impressed me -- she anticipated my needs and met them before I even asked.

She's four.

Kai also impressed me with the things he is capable of. Like when he stood in his high chair to reach for the bird feeders drying on the counter. (Mini Mommy heart attack at that one...Anya never even did that!) When he signed "milk" while nursing: milk milk milk milk milk. When he snatched the food I was breaking into small, gummable bits and ate it like a toothed person, by taking bites out of it. When he let me know he was awake by sitting up and saying, very plainly, "Mom."

One day, I had a baby and a headstrong preschooler. The next, a toddler and a little girl.

I miss my baby girl, my tiny baby boy. My heart aches for her little pudgy fingers, his contented newborn sighs. But I am also really excited about this next phase. I will get to know my daughter as a person. I will get to watch my son take his first steps and learn how to...everything. I will get to watch them play together and become even closer friends.

I, too, am growing. I look at how much I accomplish even on an off day, and I see how far I have come. I am becoming who I was always meant to be, and it is amazing.

Today's vocabulary lesson: Ornery

My daughter is ornery. In fact, one of her nicknames is Ornery Anya -- and, as it turns out, a large part of the reason for that nickname is where I come from.

Let me back up a minute.

It bugs me when words vary wildly in spelling and pronunciation. Makes me worry I am spelling or saying the word incorrectly. I get that some letters are silent, and that shifts in language do things like make us write colonel yet say kernel. Fine. But how in the heck do we get ahnree from ornery? I asked myself.

To Google! Where I discovered that the dictionary and I have vastly different definitions and pronunciations for this word. I have always used it, and have always heard it used, to mean an impish, mischievous person. A prankster. Someone who does things like, say, light a string of firecrackers in the bathroom while his brother is in the shower. Or someone who, in retaliation, lights a string of firecrackers under the open window his brother is sitting in front of -- days later, when the original firecracker incident has been forgotten.

My uncles. Both gone now, RIP. And both ornery. In my sense, not Merriam-Webster's.

The* dictionary says an ornery person is crabby. I am not unfamiliar with this definition; I've seen it used in books, and have even heard people use it to describe old people and mean dogs. In that sense, I've always heard it pronounced orn-er-ree.

The dictionary also pronounces it orn-er-ree. Like it's spelled. So my faith in spelling has been restored.

I am not at all surprised that I pronounce it differently; where I come from, you warsh things and write with an ink pin. I then moved to a place where vowels are afraid to travel alone; here, you write with an eenk pee-in. I've long since accepted that the way I say things and the way I am used to hearing them does not necessarily mesh with the rest of the country. But how did I end up with two definitions and two pronunciations?

Then I came across an entry in a blog I used to follow before I had kids and lost any semblance of free time: Language Log. TL;DR version: While the dictionary has one definition and pronunciation, there is a second definition and pronunciation that is also widespread, that coincides with the usage I'm familiar with. This usage is most prevalent in the Midwest.

I'm from the Midwest, so...there you go.

Wiktionary also acknowledges a second use, though they attribute it to the South rather than the Midwest. (I'm finding more and more that there are many linguistic overlaps between the South and the Midwest.) Which explains why my non-Midwestern friends use this same definition and pronunciation.

I did notice that Urban Dictionary acknowledges the secondary definition/pronunciation, but they spell it awnry or anry. You'd think I would prefer that spelling to ornery, as it is more closely aligned with the pronunciation I use and also acknowledges the distinction in definition by treating it like an entirely separate word. But I guess I've grown accustomed to the original spelling, because awnry just looks wrong to me. Maybe because it's one letter from awry, which has a totally different pronunciation. I don't like anry any better, though, as it's one letter short of angry. No, though in my mouth the word starts with an a sound, I still feel like the original spelling is better in writing.

The misspellings would look better with Anya, though. Spoken aloud, ahnree Anya rolls off the tongue, but seeing it in print -- ornery Anya -- is jarring. Awnry Anya at least looks like the two words sound alike.

A rose by any other name, I guess, would still be a little stinker.

I wish my uncles had lived to meet her. They'd have gotten a kick out of her.

*I know there is not one authoritative dictionary, so I give you definitions from eight -- take your pick.

Do what I say, not what I do

I've been working with Anya on good hand washing practices. We sing Daniel Tiger. ("If you have to go potty, stop and go right away / Flush and wash and be on your way!") I remind her each time she uses the toilet. I make her wash her hands even when she has me wipe her. (Her latest ploy in getting out of washing her hands: "But Mommy, I didn't wipe me! The germs are on you!") Ultimately, though, what it comes down to is that she's had inconsistent modeling.

Her grandparents always wash their hands after they use the bathroom, or help her use the bathroom. I always wash mine after helping her, and usually wash after using the toilet myself. (At home, I'm sometimes lax about it after peeing. I used to subscribe to Dr. Gott's position* that it's not medically necessary unless you get urine on your hands, and old habits die hard.) R used to never wash his hands at home, but he's also trying to reform so we can provide a united front.

Thing is, kids never mimic the behavior you want them to.

I hit upon a stroke of genius, or so I thought. I let her pick her own hand soap. (I had been making our own, which naturally is unscented and uncolored and thus unfun.) Pink, of course. And cherry blossom scented. Her middle name is Sakura, which means cherry blossom. Plus, the stuff smells pretty good. Win, right?

Well, yes. She started washing her hands without being asked. Sometimes without even doing anything beforehand that required a hand washing. And she used plenty of soap -- five or six pumps. She unfortunately isn't as good at rinsing soap off as she is at putting soap on, so when she used half a bottle in three days, she ended up with red, chapped hands.

I banned her from soap for a day or so, and her hands are healing. But I cannot talk her into using less soap.

"Just one pump is plenty," I insisted. "Look at all the bubbles one pump makes!"

Later, I was washing my own hands, and realized the problem: I am in the habit of using three to four pumps of soap. I'm using watered-down foaming soap,** but she of course doesn't see the distinction. And even when I'm using the liquid soap she uses, I never stop before two pumps. In public restrooms, I use even more.

It's ingrained, though. Even though I realize what I'm doing and want to stop, I can't. My palm has a mind of its own, and it is not satisfied with a solitary pump of soap. So why would my daughter think it's enough?

This sort of thing was the main reason I quit smoking. I didn't want to wait until she was older and then have to recondition her to think cigarettes were bad. So I quit, and R switched to vaping. And now she walks around puffing on a Capri Sun straw that she calls her "mod."

I can't win.

*Can't put my hands on the original article, but there's a couple of links of the fallout for your amusement.
**The perfume in the soap I bought is far too strong for me at full strength.

Life after fenugreek

It's hard to say how my supply is doing. Kai isn't nursing so much during the day now that he's older, so he does most of his breastfeeding overnight. These past few days, he's been waking up and completely draining each breast* without falling asleep, which means I am not getting a full, uninterrupted nights sleep. I have thus begun to describe myself using a mash-up word I saw on FB the other day: irritired. I am extremely irritired lately.

Still, I don't know that the milkathons are because he's not getting enough milk. He's also not had a decent bowel movement in a few days. Some small, dryish poos, but nothing substantial. So he could just be constipated. (He's recently upped his solid food intake considerably, so a little constipation is to be expected.) We've loaded him with prune juice, so we'll see if that helps. If not, I'll go get some coconut water or something to see if I can't kickstart the boob juice without fenugreek. Or maybe power pumping would help. I hope it doesn't come to that, though...I hate pumping.

Anyway. On the topic of breastfeeding, I saw this great article about extended BFing. (Short answer: No. But read the article...it's fascinating.) Now I am more determined to keep nursing Kai, until he's ready to quit. The comfort and security it brings is worth all the pain and inconvenience in the world.

Just forgive me if I'm a bit irritired from time to time. I'm growing a boy here.

*By "drained," I mean he's nursed until the flow slows down, at which point he starts "milking" the nipple with his gums to try stimulating the flow. It bloody hurts, and is impossible to sleep through. It's usually my cue to switch him to the other breast. He used to fall asleep after draining both breasts, but not this week. This week he has just kept milking both breasts until I take them away, at which point he decides it's play time and smacks his sister in the head.

Artsy craftsy things

I've had a sudden burst of creative energy, and have started a list of projects I would like to do. Mostly small things -- floral arrangements and decor makeovers.

First up is this vase. Mom had it in her office for years, and gave it to me when she retired. I like the shape of it, but the design is not my style.

Too dark, too...birdy.

So Anya and I primed it, and I am currently deciding what color to paint it. Initially I was thinking champagne gold, but that's awfully...neutral. I have the tendency to overneutral.

I feel like I should do something a little more bold -- copper, maybe, or slate blue. (Copper I have; slate blue I will have to buy.) It all depends on where I am going to put the finished product. Which I should have decided before we slathered it all up with primer, I know. I have some ideas, but nothing definite.

Ready when we are.

Anyway. I now have a blank slate for painting, that didn't cost me a dime because the vase was given to me and the primer was left over from another project. (The priming also occupied Anya for an hour on a cold, blustery day, which is worth way more than the cost of a brand-new vase.)

Next up: A couple of photo collages made from frames I already have. (Hoarding does occasionally have its uses.) I think we'll prime them tonight, while I'm deciding on the color of the vase.

Looks like it's the fenugreek

I took fenugreek for the first time in a week Sunday night, and woke up Monday with a mild case of hives. So I am going to take another break from it and see if they go away. If so, I will have some fenugreek capsules and mother's milk tea to give away in addition to the brewer's yeast.

Yes, I'm getting rid of the brewer's yeast. My body cannot deal with that stuff. And as I've proven in the past week, I can finally muster up enough milk to feed Kai without it -- probably because he's eating more solids. Which means there is no point putting myself through all the side effects.

It just figures with the fenugreek, though. I have 4-5 unopened boxes of mother's milk tea and two unopened bottles of fenugreek capsules, plus an open package of each. And the only jar I could find of the brewer's yeast is HUGE. Some mama is about to hit the galactagogue motherlode.

I'm relieved, though, that the trigger wasn't any of the suspect foods. Dairy, wheat, eggs...any one of those would seriously affect my diet. And chocolate? Sure, I could live without it, but what's the point of dessert if it's not chocolate?

I suppose that if I had to be allergic to something, fenugreek is the least painful choice. I'm just glad I didn't develop this allergy until Kai was firmly on solid food. Makes my job a lot easier!

Impromptu cleaning day

R overslept Saturday and missed work. Which means I had a helper, and got way more cleaning done than I had hoped.

Which was good, because it turns out there was mold growing on our windowsills. Not just mildew. Mold. Green, slimy, yucky....yeuggh.

The hives, the congestion, the repeated sinus issues, my red eyes -- it's all making sense. Especially since the worst rooms were the bedroom and my office.

So we scrubbed and washed and sprayed everything with mold control spray. I was still stuffy the next morning, but am hoping this helps.

I also cleared out some of the knick-knacks from the bedroom, to make it easier to dust in there. I had almost all of them put away anyway, but I have since put up the rest. And I washed up the curtains, pillows, and other infrequently cleaned things, just for grins. I still have Anya's room and the kitchen to go, but the house is in pretty good shape otherwise.

Dealing with my allergies is a top priority this year. Not just for me, but for my kids, as it seems they have each inherited at least some of my sensitivities. I don't want them to go through what I have. I want to get a handle on things early, so they don't spend half their lives sick.

Again with the hives

A new day, a new rash. This one starts at my hips and spreads downward, mostly ending at my knees but with a few intrepid explorers reaching the tops of my feet.

What the hell am I reacting to?

Last night we had green bean casserole and mac & cheese for dinner. (Yes, I know...terribly nutritious. It was fast and easy, okay?) I paired mine with unsweetened applesauce and Ovaltine. So tomatoes are apparently exonerated, but wheat, dairy, and chocolate are still on the chopping block. And I am left with the decision to either take Benadryl and drag all day or skip it and suffer.

Actually, that's not entirely true. There's a third option. I just took some Allegra. Allegra tends to give me migraines, but you know what? Today that doesn't sound so bad.

I am so very tired of itching. But I am also tired of being tired. I have things to do. Also, it's supposed to be warmer today -- I'd planned on taking the kids to the park.

More than anything, I'm tired of my allergies.

Earlier, Anya pointed to a picture in her coloring book. "Can I have a pet?" she asked, enunciating carefully.

"Oh, honey, you know Mommy is allergic to dogs and cats," I told her. "Their fur makes Mommy sick."

"I know," she said. "But what about a lizard? Do lizards make your nose itch?"

"Well, I don't know. I don't think so. We'll talk about it when you're older." (I'm not really a fan of lizards.)

I can always tell when she really wants something when she takes extra pains in her pronunciation. The only word she didn't say perfectly was "lizard"; it came out more like "lih-ard." Pretty darn close, especially for her. I'm not really a pet person, but when she tries that hard, I wish I could be.

With the way my allergies are going, though, I'm really not willing to take the chance.

Welcome to the doldrums

Anya is bored. Never mind that Santa lavished her with gifts not quite a month ago, and that Mimi the Good keeps giving her additional "prizes" for things like breathing and smiling. No material thing is going to do; she wants to play with someone.

In a year or so, Kai will do nicely, but right now he's a baby. He's cute, but not the best playmate. Her friends are older, and thus in school. I have to work. Mimi and Poppy are at the doctor's office. And Daddy is cleaning up the carnage in the kitchen.

Usually I am good at coming up with things to alleviate her boredom, but I still have the Benadryl Stupids. My rash is better, but better is not gone, and I'm starting to break the skin where I scratch. So, Benadryl. I'm only taking a dose or two a day, but that's enough to knock my IQ back 50 points.

I am also highly lacking in motivation. Christmas is easy; there's always something fun to do or look forward to. January is more about hunkering down under a blanket and watching Netflix. Anya is tired of Netflix. (I know!) And my brain is sputtering. I'm trying to come up with a fun activity for a 4-year-old that doesn't involve leaving the house, but what sounds most fun to me is a warm bed and a long nap.

I've been trying to talk her into taking a dance class, both to help her make friends and to give her something to look forward to, but she is resisting thus far. She wants to take swimming lessons. Which don't start until April, and are thus no help in these doldrums.

Itchy scratchy

My allergist decided against testing for food allergies right now. Which I'm fine with; I wasn't really looking forward to that, and I'm not sure what they could give me if they triggered an allergic reaction during testing.

By the same token, though, I still don't know what caused my reaction last Friday, so I am still afraid to eat.

I'm also itchy. The rash has abated considerably, and applications of Vanicream and hydrocortisone cream are keeping the itching in check, but it's not gone. I'm taking Benadryl when it gets unbearable; so far I have not noticed any ill effects on my supply, but Kai seems to be kind of spacey after I take it, so I'm not taking any more than I have to.

I'll be checking back in with my allergist Friday, and treatment will proceed from there. I can say I am extra motivated to resume shots now; it's kind of a pain to have to drive out there every week, but being sick is more of a pain.

In the meantime, I'm concentrating on cleaning my house and (slowly, carefully) testing the suspect foods to see if I react again.

I'm covered in bees!

Post title stolen from this Eddie Izzard bit, which has been stuck in my head for four days now.

Ahem. Anyway. Because I write these posts ahead of time (usually not much, but a little), what you don't know about Friday is that I woke covered in hives. Or, you know, I thought I was covered. I had huge hives on my hips, back, and stomach, and a few small ones on my thighs and forearms.

At first I thought it was related to the respiratory allergies -- just an additional symptom. My dehumidifier came in Wednesday night, and we have been running it continuously ever since. The bad news is that now all my windowsills are covered in mildew, so I have quite the cleaning task ahead of me. The good news is that the windowsills are at least dry, and my respiratory junk is pretty much gone (though I did, obviously, get a bit stuffy while we were taking down the Christmas tree and cleaning the living room). My nose is not running, my eyes are much less red, and I'm no longer congested. I am not coughing and clearing my throat constantly. It's a small miracle. That noisy box is worth every penny I spent on it.

But the hives. The hives spread, and spread some more. Across my torso to my chest, neck, face, and and arms, and down my legs to my knees. (You could see the ones on my knees through my yoga pants. Puffy!) I'd been resisting taking Benadryl, because I feared the possible drop in my milk supply, but when the hives spread to my face and ears even after taking 2 teaspoons of Benadryl (one at a time, 2 hours apart -- I am extremely cautious about what I take these days), I started to freak out a little. Finally, I felt compelled to seek medical advice.

From my friendly Walgreen's pharmacist, because by this point it was 8 pm.

The pharmacist was also concerned, but not alarmed. A food allergy, he said. Take more Benadryl, he said. The adult dose this time.

I have not suffered an allergic reaction like this to a food since childhood. The occasional hive or rash, yes. An interesting evening in which my then boyfriend ate shrimp, kissed me, and my lips swelled up and itched. But this. This was like my body was having a panic attack. My skin felt both sunburned and on fire with itching. Actually, I am not sure I have ever had an allergic reaction quite like this.

After having him repeat three times what sensations should trigger a call to 911, I picked up a bottle of dye-free Benadryl and left. (What I had at home was red, because they didn't have the dye-free stuff at the store where R bought it. I am allergic to red food dye. Yep -- I probably did make things worse instead of better with those first two teaspoons.) Took my first dose in the car, then went home.

My throat never did require a call to 911, but I woke the next morning covered in even more hives. The existing ones were so big that they melded together in giant swollen continents. New hives speckled my hands and feet, swelling them to the point where I could not wear rings or constricting shoes. To the minor med I went. Got a cortisone shot and a prescription for an antihistamine, which I filled but am afraid to take because of the warnings about breastfeeding.

Sunday started with a diminished rash, but it later flared back up to an echo of its former glory. I took more Benadryl, and painted myself in hydrocortisone cream so I could sleep.

This morning dawned to a less red, but still speckly and itchy me. So I will be seeing my allergist today. I had been planning on resuming shots anyway, but now it would appear I have a second round of tests ahead of me. Which is fine; I just want to feel better.

And never go through this hive thing again.

The sex in our words

I've been thinking a lot about the casual sexism in my life, as I've mentioned. One pet peeve that has arisen: When a group of women is communicating, and they feel the need to use the word ladies constantly.

Okay, ladies, what do you think about...
Do you ladies agree?"
Ladies, let's do this.

I'm not even talking about the stereotypical Okay, ladies, where shall we have lunch? No, it's worse than that.

Okay, ladies, how are we going to address this global warming issue?
What do you ladies think about those whack jobs up in Oregon? Shall we bomb them, or do they have a point?
Let's go feed some starving children, ladies!

Maybe it's just because I work with only women now, both in my day job and in my freelancing gigs, but I grit my teeth every time I see the word ladies. First of all, I don't think of myself as a lady.* But that's not the only reason. If we were men, would we feel the need to mention our gender all the time?

Okay, gentlemen, where shall we have lunch? 
What do you gentlemen think about... 
Do you gentlemen agree? 

Not bloody likely. Maybe in the distant past, but guys these days don't tend to talk like that. Though substituting dudes for gentlemen does bring to mind a voice somewhere between Keanu Reeves and Ashton Kutcher, so perhaps there is a precedent for gender-flogging amongst a certain subset of males.

I have not forgotten that I am female. Or that you are female. That we are all, in fact, female. I do not need a reminder.

And yes, I get that it's kind of special that we are all female. We've come a long way, baby, but we're not there yet. We won't be there until we can stop having stupid conversations about parental leave and periods and whether or not it might inappropriately arouse someone if I feed my kid in front of them. So yeah...best get comfy, because this is going to be a long and bumpy ride.

But I don't think we help matters when we fly the ladies flag in situations in which our gender does not, in fact, matter. For example, if I am editing a piece on breastfeeding, and I am a woman who has breastfed, my gender is relevant.** I bring a special knowledge to the piece, through my gender and experience. If, however, I am editing a journal article on the comparison of Drug A and Drug B, my gender does not matter a bit, and I see no need to call attention to it. (Actually, I see no need to call attention to it in the first piece, either, unless my expertise is called into question.) Nor does it matter when we are deciding what color font to use in a project, in which order we should all review proofs, or -- indeed! -- where we should consume the mid-day meal.

I am a woman, yes. But first and foremost, I am a person. If you would not say men, gentlemen, dudes, or some variation thereof if the gender composition of the group were flipped, and if you would not feel compelled to throw in people if the group comprised both genders, do not say ladies.

I read somewhere recently that people feel this same way about the use of you guys and guys. Which I found interesting, given that I wrote a paper in grad school on the use of you guys versus y'all. Back then, usage seemed fairly split, and appeared to depend largely on where a person was born. (Above the Mason-Dixon line, you guys; below it, y'all.) Usage seems to have shifted in recent years, with more universal use of y'all (though I have not done any sort of formal survey to test that theory); the article I read postulated that this shift is because people are put off by the inherent sexism of you guys. Which shocked me -- probably because I was born on the other side of the Mason-Dixon line. I have always preferred you guys. Partly because y'all sounds very Duke Boys to my ear;*** partly because another pet peeve of mine is when people misplace the apostrophe.**** But I have been trying to compromise by replacing you guys with you all -- or writing around the construction entirely.

As I type this, I can feel a certain subset of people bristling at having to think so hard about mere words. I sympathize. I used to feel the same way. But words matter. Not because I work with them for a living (of course I think they matter!), but because what we say reflects what we believe. Sometimes it's a subtle reflection, but it's always there. Change your words, change your mind.


*To me, lady evokes connotations of floral dresses and tea and repressed sexual morals. I'm not the most open person sexually, and I certainly try not to be crass, but I have been living in sin with my baby daddy and our two illegitimate kids for several years now, which appears to have been enough to get me cut out of Grandma's will. Prim and proper, I ain't.

**I am not really up to speed on all of the cis/trans stuff, so I'm merely addressing what I know, which is the dichotomy of physically male and female. Forgive my ignorance of the rest. I'm not judging or dismissing...I just don't know enough to speak to it.

***Does that date me? Okay, Britney Spears. Though that probably dates me, too.

****The contraction is of the words you all, not ya all -- the apostrophe replaces the letters ou a and thus comes after the y. Please, take pity on the punctuation nerd. ::twitch::

I'm sick, but not really

I've felt like crap all week, but haven't gone to the doctor. Mostly because I'm not sure what, exactly, he'd do. Because I'm not really sick; this isn't a virus or anything. It's allergies.

See, here's the thing. When I was in college, I had this kind of crap a lot. I was outside all the time, plus the campus is in the middle of the city, so air pollution was an issue. Also, I chain-smoked, because college. In other words, I was surrounded by allergens constantly. When I say I went through this a lot, I mean I spent pretty much all semester congested and miserable, with a sinus infection and bronchitis and perhaps an infected ear or two. Month after month after month (with summers off, thankfully). For years.

Going to the doctor on campus was free, so I did (duh). Only they really could not help me most of the time. I was either not sick enough (they'd tell me to take Sudafed and get some sleep, which of course did not stop the progression to infection) or too sick I required heavy-duty decongestants and antibiotics they did not have on hand), and had to go to a "real" doctor).

After I got out of school, I mostly went to the minor med, because they were open after work and because my old GP's office kept tossing out my records when I didn't come in for a few months. They, too, would occasionally tell me I was not sick enough for them to help me. So now I have it in my head that I have to be "sick enough" to go to the doctor.

I'm not sure that's the case with my current GP; I think he'd find a way to help me. Except with the breastfeeding, I'm not sure he can help me at the moment. What I need is something to dry up this mucus. But I can't have anything like that right now.

I have drainage, and the sick, achy feeling in my head and chest that comes with a low-level infection, but no clear signs of "hey, I'm sick and require antibiotics." So I'm self-medicating with some Flonase left over from my last illness and sleeping a lot in hopes that this junk will somehow right itself, or at least tip me far enough into Evidently Sick that I can justify taking off work to go to the doctor.

Maybe later today, if I don't feel better, I'll go in just so I don't have to suffer all weekend if there is something to be done.

Maybe I AM my breasts

Before I got pregnant with Anya, I wasn't even sure I was going to breastfeed. My nipples have always been problematic; if I wear the wrong bra, they bleed. Was I really going to try to feed a baby with them? What if she made them bleed? My baby would be drinking blood. While I have always enjoyed vampire stories, I didn't relish the thought of raising one.

Then hormones happened. One evening in my third trimester, I suddenly began daydreaming about breastfeeding my baby. The thought came out of nowhere, and would not let up. The mere thought of nursing my newborn filled me with warmth and happiness. Instinct really is amazing. (Let it be known that I was also pretty jazzed about changing poopy diapers. That one passed quickly.)

My poor body, though, just didn't have enough mojo to make milk after Anya was born. She took to nursing beautifully, and I cherished that time with her, but within a week it was clear that my milk was not coming in. (Well, it wasn't clear at the time. Having successfully breastfed, I can now tell you that I never produced more than trace amounts of milk for Anya.)

I was devastated. Not because I thought formula was so bad (though it is certainly not the "easy" route), but because I wanted so desperately to nurse my daughter. It made her so happy. It was easy. It was natural. And it just wasn't happening. Fenugreek, blessed thistle, Reglan (twice), power pumping...nothing helped. 

I fought. I mourned. I moved on.

When I got pregnant again, I was determined to do everything I could to ensure I could breastfeed my son. Before I got pregnant, I put on weight to bump my BMI up to 18 (mostly to help prevent miscarriages, but it also helped me breastfeed). Throughout my pregnancy, I read up on breastfeeding -- anything I could get my hands on, which was frustratingly little. The whole time I was in the hospital, I pestered the nurses to check to make sure that I had milk and that he was getting enough of it. 

Three days after Kai joined us in the world, the Milk Fairy came. I did not have nursing bras or pajamas that would contain those things. (Thankfully, they deflated a bit after a few days.)

"Ah," I thought. "This is how it's supposed to go." 

While I have fought with a precarious supply (Kai came close to being labeled Failure to Thrive during his early checkups, and even now is a bit on the slim side for his age and height), and am currently dealing with teething and distraction during our nursing sessions, for the most part nursing has been a breeze. We all get plenty of sleep. Don't have to mess with bottles, bottle warmers, formula containers, or pacifiers. And I feel he and I have such a connection because of our nursing relationship -- even more than I have with his sister.  

But my experience with breastfeeding is about more than just feeding my baby. I have learned so much about sexism and body shaming and the strange myths that persist about sex and parenthood and sin. I have learned how shamefully little many medical professionals and the public at large know about this most basic bodily function. I have been on the receiving end of snide comments and leers, while showing less skin than I do in a bathing suit. 

But I have also been supported by total strangers, both in person and online. Through Facebook and Instagram, I have discovered a whole community of women bound together by our determination to normalize breastfeeding. And I have become infinitely more comfortable in my own skin. I, who just a few short years ago was ashamed if my bra strap was showing, am now an avid public breastfeeder -- and no, I don't use a cover or a baby carrier, or wear a bunch of shirts. You'll see more cleavage on the front of any Victoria's Secret store. At least my boobs are out for a good reason.

I can't really give a comprehensive list of places I have breastfed, because I do it without a second thought now. But here's a short list:

• Doctor's waiting rooms
• Restaurants (Chili's, Newks, Subway, Longhorn, Red Robin, Milano's, Sonic, Cracker Barrel)
• Stores (Kohl's, Target, Walmart, Kroger, Whole Foods, Walgreen's, Lenscrafters)
• Several parks and playgrounds
• Front yards (mine, my parents', my in-law's)
• Fairs (Delta Fair, Munford Celebrate, July 4th fireworks)
• Social gatherings (a birthday party, a company Christmas party, a funeral)
• Assorted parking lots, including a particularly seedy gas station and a church I do not attend (during services)
• Various tweet-worthy feeds (an earthquake, a lunar eclipse)

Pretty much anywhere I've gone with my baby, I've fed him. At first, I was shy and awkward about it. Even now I get a pang sometimes, like when I nursed him while sitting in a chair in front of the mall-facing windows of Lenscrafters on one of the busiest days of the year. But ultimately, I'm more concerned with feeding my child than drawing the attention of strangers. 

Which is how it should be.

I had some breastfeeding photos taken recently, to commemorate this time in my life. I have no intention of stopping until he is ready, but I also have no idea when that will be, so I feel the need to capture the moments while I can. Of the final shots, this one is my favorite, even though he's not actually breastfeeding in it. I feel like it really captures our personalities and our bond.

Photo by the lovely Cassie Fox, www.whitedoewoman.com.

I knew that breastfeeding my son would alter the childcare experience, but I didn't expect it to change me as a person. It has, though. It's changed how I see other women, other mothers. Changed how I think about my own body. I never realized how much my perceptions were filtered through the sexualization of the female body until I stopped thinking of my breasts as sexual objects. One simple change has sent ripples through my entire world view, like waves of dominoes. I could not possibly cover all of the implications in a single blog post.

Having my daughter has taught me about being a mother, but nursing my son has taught me about being a woman. 

Edit: I just saw this video on FB, and absolutely love it. And Alyssa Milano. "I'd whip 'em out right here." THIS.

One size does not fit all

Contrary to the heading above, this is not about clothing. See, I told you I suck at titles.

No, this is about advice. I have tried to steer clear of railing at the advice heaped upon me (and every other parent alive) through various outlets because it's been done to death. I'm in the throes of it, and I bore myself mid-rant.

However, I would like to make a small exception for brewer's yeast.

I've mentioned my supply issues. (Yes, Lactation Hotline Lady, I have supply issues. Really. Relaxing and drinking more water and pumping on a schedule are not magic bullets.) I was trucking along pretty good on my OMG Oatmeal diet, though, until the Great Stomach Plague hit. I've recovered physically, and don't appear as...deflated, but I'm still not up to where I was. I'm pretty much doing all I can, food and supplement wise, to increase my supply; the only thing I do not consume on a regular basis is brewer's yeast. So this weekend, I made lactation cookies.

Normally, I shun lactation cookies. Because they're cookies, and who needs that much sugar? But I just can't do brewer's yeast in juice or oatmeal; mixing it with massive amounts of sweetener is the only way I can stomach it. Cookies it is. Two dozen cookies.

I'm not sure I can eat them.

They taste okay. If you like beer in your oatmeal cookies, which I do not. But I am a big girl -- I can deal. They don't make me gag like brewer's yeast in juice, at any rate.

But the side effects. Oh, my. Migraines and diarrhea and gas and nausea. It's a hangover. I feel like I drank the beer itself. With very little excess milk to show for my pain.

That's just not fair. I should at least be milked up.

Much as I hate to waste food, I am seriously considering chucking those cookies. I just don't think I can face feeling hungover for the next 2 to 4 weeks.

And I'm going to start taking these "universal truths" with a grain of salt. What works for other people does not necessarily work for me.

New year, new shoes

In terms of clothes, I tend to make do. In some respects, I've had no choice; short of having my clothes custom made, I have to deal with ill-fitting clothes, and have since I was a small child. Short torso, long legs, small upper body, squishy tushy...I'm now in my fourth decade of life, and though the "typical" body shape has changed a great deal in that time, at no point was mine it.

There's also the brokeness factor. I've worn cheap shoes my whole adult life because I can afford them. I won't wear uncomfortable shoes, so I have been spared the corns and bunions my peers suffer from, but I have tended to put fashion above function, and quantity above quality.

My ankle has been letting me know my sneakers are worn out. It took a couple of years, but they're finally dying on me. I've been halfheartedly trying on cheaper sneakers (Mom took pity on me and bought my current pair), but nothing is as comfortable -- even in their current broken-down state.

I have walked the tread off my current shoes.

Finally, I decided to replace them with another pair from the same brand. No -- two pairs. One for everyday wear, one just for exercising. They ought to last twice as long that way. And it's not like I require a vast sneaker wardrobe; two pairs is all I need. If they last 4 years, that comes out to $75 a year. Way cheaper than another bout of PT.

I also sprang for a couple pairs of flats. Usually I wear sneaks, but occasionally I want to pretty up a bit. I've been wearing a (quite comfy, really) pair of Target flats, but they don't provide enough support for my ankle. So I upgraded to a pair of Kenneth Cole and a pair of Born. Those two pair should fill all of my dressier shoe needs for...well, years, really -- I've been running on this one pair of Target flats since Anya was born, and they're still in great shape. So in theory, I could wear the new shoes for a decade, even. No way my cheapie flats could last a decade.

Sure, I've saved money. But now that my life has changed, my wardrobe needs have dwindled. And I'm tired of wearing unsupportive shoes. I deserve better.

Now, for clothes, I'm content to rock the cheap stuff for a while. Little kids = stains, and also my weight is still in flux. But once the kids are older and I'm back to normal, I want to start buying better quality stuff. I don't need an entire closet full of clothes for each season; I don't go anywhere, don't chase trends, and tend to wear the same items of clothing week in and week out. I'd rather have fewer, nicer pieces and use layers to transition between seasons. 

Which leads me to my biggest current wardrobe woe: Bras. I am the not-so-proud owner of a ribcage deemed too small to nurse babies, or so the nursing bra market has led me to believe. I recently purchased literally the only three bras I can find that come anywhere close to fitting me. None of them fit me well. In fact, one of them has rubbed sores on my sides. And even the one that is my size is too broad through the shoulders, meaning it digs in and leaves marks on me.

That red mark is the imprint of the cup clasp.

But I haven't found a workable alternative, so I will persevere...and probably wear band-aids a lot. However, when I quit nursing, I am absolutely going to splurge on a collection of bras that actually fit me. Because I have come to realize that ill-fitting bras are as big a damper on one's mood as worn-out shoes. If you are persistently uncomfortable, it affects your entire outlook.

I am tired of bras that chafe, pants that won't stay up (and take my underwear down with them), shoes that provide too little (or too much!) support. I am tired of feeling ill at ease in my own clothes, my own skin. It is worth it to me to find things that fit my body, or pay someone to make them fit.

If everything in my closet actually fit, I would no longer have to weigh myself and/or gauge what sort of "body day" I am having before getting dressed. I could just grab an outfit and put it on. If I simplified the range of outfits I own (like Obama and his suits), I'd have even fewer changes to make. (I can't go full-on uniform, because Anya likes it when I dress pretty, but I could streamline my options a bit.)

I would also love to support small businesses and independent artisans, but that's a whole other journey. For now, I'd be content to not have to tug at my clothes all the time.

Five minutes

One goal I have for myself in the coming year is to make more time for self care. To start, I am promising myself 5 minutes a day. In that 5 minutes, I can:

• Meditate for 2 minutes
• Plank for 60 seconds 
• Do 2-4 yoga poses 

It's not much, I know. But I've had trouble making time for a 10-minute meditation or 30 minutes of yoga. I can always squeeze in 5 minutes.

I know from past experience that just 60 seconds of planking a day makes a serious difference in my core strength. I imagine that I will see equally impressive results with 2 minutes of meditation and yoga if I stick with them.

And as I get better about upholding that 5-minute promise, I can extend it to 10, then 15, then 20. From small things, big things grow.

Dealing with allergy, step 1: Humidity

Humidity is not my friend. It makes my hair fuzzy, my joints achy, my nose sniffly. I have suffered the whole time I've lived here, which has been...a lotta, lotta years. (I am older right now than my mother was when we moved here, if that tells you anything.)

I won't say I don't experience some benefits from the humidity. I don't suffer the dry skin here that I do up north. And as I don't use fabric softener, I tend to have issues with sweaters when the air is drier. However, I would happily scratch, snap, crackle, and pop if it meant I could breathe. I can't breathe when it's damp and moldy.

And while my kids are a bit young to have been tested, Anya is already on daily allergy meds, and Kai is showing signs of eczema. I was diagnosed with allergies at a young age, too -- around age 3. They did not get better with age.

So I bit the bullet. Ordered a dehumidifier. A nice (ie, expensive) one. Hopefully more dehumidifier than I need, really. But I erred on the side of excess. Sometimes, you need to jump on a problem with both feet.

See that puddle? All my windows have one.

My new dehumidifier should be here next week. I'll report back once we have it up and running.