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.