This is the time of year when I begin to think about fall. 85 degrees, 70% humidity, children whining and expiring before my eyes due to excessive heat. I'm whining and expiring before YOUR very eyes! Actually, at this very moment, I'm hiding in our fairy room (for those of you unfamiliar to the fairy room, this is where all of mama & papa's special toys are kept--no, not those toys, you filthy beast! Sewing machine, printer, loads of cds, precarious books on perches, paints, needles, artwork, old journals, a shredder; ie, things that little hands should not touch).
This room--a sort of room of our own (mine and Michael's) will probably be forfeited to Beatrice, should we live here long enough; Sebastian's room is really the multi-purpose diaper-changing/sleep space/clothing storage area, but he doesn't seem to mind, as long as he has his fire fighter lamp...and his firetruck rug...and his world map...and his potty poster (stickers he earned for each successful pee trip when we were in training mode--or commode). I'm going to miss this room. When the sticky chunks from the children go flying, this is where I like to hide (usually with permission, so as not to leave Michael to simply track my dust cloud as I sprint away). Virginia had her own room, hell--so did Pandora--is it wrong to want to keep this room? A place for the holey shirts to collect, sadly awaiting mending; a refuge for the stuffed animals that have been bitten apart by a tiny teether; a landing strip for the airborne internet signal to alight; I shall miss them all dearly, should I sacrifice this space.
I've got a while yet; it's fortunate for me that Beatrice likes the taste of coffee (which is hopefully stunting her growth) and has a spirit for adventure; she might be content on a shelf, or perhaps in the hammock-shaped lens of the light fixture...
Friday, July 2, 2010
Monday, April 19, 2010
You Can't Breastfeed a Baby Bird
So, I go outside to take the laundry off the line, and I do a full stop, dry cloth diaper in hand, to take in the small, pink lump that offered a change to the gray slab pavement. I walk over carefully, noting that I'm a little scared. I look closer and see that the little lump is breathing. A pink, translucent little critter is free-loading on my yard...and I realize it's a baby bird with no home. I need to digress here:
Shortly after the birth of little SeaBass, my midwife told me that, "when you become a mother, you become a mother to the whole world." No truer words have been spoken. When a kid cries, even if I know it's not one of my own, I'll look to see if I can help. I can't stand idly by anymore if anyone needs help. I just can't. I used to be much frostier than this; what was another whiny kid? A nuisance. Now? Oh, my...
My breasts fill with milk as I size up this helpless, probably dying creature. What the hell could I do? If it were me, pre-children, I'd say, "eh, an animal will get it and put it out of its misery. That's nature. Sucks to be the bird, but someone else will get an appetizer." I'm not horrified at that pre-babe me, but I'm glad she's gone. I'm a much softer, more tender me, and I can't help but think that I need to try to do my best to give this wee little creature a fair shot. My first thought: put on gloves, and hold the bird gently in a soft cloth until I can figure out what to do next.
What did I do next, you may ask? Well, it should be obvious, really...30 years ago--heck, even 15 years ago, people would reference an encyclopedia to figure out how to take care of a stranded bird; I did the modern thing: reference the all-knowing beastie we so lovingly turn to in times of crisis or drunkenness (especially when seeking out old classmates/crushes): the internet!
I'm told by the National Audubon Society that not only should I do nothing for this bird, but that it is illegal to harbor a wild bird in one's home. Okay, too harsh. Need a more liberal approach to bird-rearing...ask.com suggests the same, but to also consider putting the bird back in the nest (if I can find it) or, if it's feathered, leave it alone to let its parents take care of it. If it is unfeathered and has no nest, one could try to build a simple nest for it out of a berry container and some straw or paper strips and place it in a tree; the parent will find it and take care of it. Regardless, one should NOT FEED the bird.
This is where it gets difficult (although it was already difficult doing the research with one hand while the other was holding a peeping baby bird); I gave directions to Michael about how to build a nest and we managed to put together a decent home made out of 1/4 of an egg carton and shredded paper towels. I took it outside and nestled it into the lilac bushes (the nearest tree-ish home from whence the wee bird could have emerged), and placed the ugliest, most dearest thing inside. And then I checked on it. And then I walked away. And then I checked on it. And then I walked away. Repeat this 3 more times. I felt invested. I felt responsible. I felt like a mother to this bird's world.
Michael and I (and Bea, who was being slung by Michael) went inside, and I felt like I did something for the little bird, but I felt anxious. What if I moved the bird too far away? What if its mother gave up on it? What if it was a runt and meant to die in the first place? I conceded to myself that at least I gave it a more comfortable way to die, amongst the fragrance of the lilacs, the gentle breeze, the warm, green leaves, and the sounds of its brethren, rather than to face a gruesome, painful death entailing a slow mastication of its flesh by ants, mites, bugs, or other critters...To die peacefully in the trees must at least FEEL better than to be eaten alive, right?
I watched the egg-carton nest-condo on and off for an hour from the kitchen window, waiting for mama or papa to show up. Everytime a bird was in the slightest proximity to the lilacs, I would wonder (sometimes out loud), like some over-anxious foster mother waiting for the new adoptive parents to show up, "is that the one? That robin? I bet that robin is the mama. Or that fat sparrow. No, definitely the robin."
Yeah, go ahead and laugh...it doesn't stop there, either--no, in my addled brain, fueled with mama-milk hormones (prolactin's the biggie), I decided I needed to feed the bird. Seriously. Okay, by now you're probably wondering if I ate a few worms, vomited them up into a cup, and sucked up the snack w/a syringe for baby, right? Well, you're right about the cup and the syringe, but that's where it stops. The real craziness is that the only thing I could think to give this bird was a teeny amount of human baby formula (I have some from when I could not nurse due to a medicine that I had to take for a few days). Prepped, sucked into the syringe, and yep--baby bird drank some, desperately clinging onto the mouth of the syringe as if it were mama herself. I nearly cried.
I'm sure that in the end, it'll have been me that killed the bird. It might still be alive out there, but I'm guessing it has already died of exposure or possibly indigestion; sure, we've seen grown birds eating cheese before, but this is nonfat cow milk with a shitload of crazy human-growth vitamins. A tasty last meal, perhaps? A constipating cork of goo that overwhelmed an underdeveloped digestive system? All of the above. I couldn't leave it alone. I couldn't leave it unfed. The poor little thing didn't stand a chance.
Shortly after the birth of little SeaBass, my midwife told me that, "when you become a mother, you become a mother to the whole world." No truer words have been spoken. When a kid cries, even if I know it's not one of my own, I'll look to see if I can help. I can't stand idly by anymore if anyone needs help. I just can't. I used to be much frostier than this; what was another whiny kid? A nuisance. Now? Oh, my...
My breasts fill with milk as I size up this helpless, probably dying creature. What the hell could I do? If it were me, pre-children, I'd say, "eh, an animal will get it and put it out of its misery. That's nature. Sucks to be the bird, but someone else will get an appetizer." I'm not horrified at that pre-babe me, but I'm glad she's gone. I'm a much softer, more tender me, and I can't help but think that I need to try to do my best to give this wee little creature a fair shot. My first thought: put on gloves, and hold the bird gently in a soft cloth until I can figure out what to do next.
What did I do next, you may ask? Well, it should be obvious, really...30 years ago--heck, even 15 years ago, people would reference an encyclopedia to figure out how to take care of a stranded bird; I did the modern thing: reference the all-knowing beastie we so lovingly turn to in times of crisis or drunkenness (especially when seeking out old classmates/crushes): the internet!
I'm told by the National Audubon Society that not only should I do nothing for this bird, but that it is illegal to harbor a wild bird in one's home. Okay, too harsh. Need a more liberal approach to bird-rearing...ask.com suggests the same, but to also consider putting the bird back in the nest (if I can find it) or, if it's feathered, leave it alone to let its parents take care of it. If it is unfeathered and has no nest, one could try to build a simple nest for it out of a berry container and some straw or paper strips and place it in a tree; the parent will find it and take care of it. Regardless, one should NOT FEED the bird.
This is where it gets difficult (although it was already difficult doing the research with one hand while the other was holding a peeping baby bird); I gave directions to Michael about how to build a nest and we managed to put together a decent home made out of 1/4 of an egg carton and shredded paper towels. I took it outside and nestled it into the lilac bushes (the nearest tree-ish home from whence the wee bird could have emerged), and placed the ugliest, most dearest thing inside. And then I checked on it. And then I walked away. And then I checked on it. And then I walked away. Repeat this 3 more times. I felt invested. I felt responsible. I felt like a mother to this bird's world.
Michael and I (and Bea, who was being slung by Michael) went inside, and I felt like I did something for the little bird, but I felt anxious. What if I moved the bird too far away? What if its mother gave up on it? What if it was a runt and meant to die in the first place? I conceded to myself that at least I gave it a more comfortable way to die, amongst the fragrance of the lilacs, the gentle breeze, the warm, green leaves, and the sounds of its brethren, rather than to face a gruesome, painful death entailing a slow mastication of its flesh by ants, mites, bugs, or other critters...To die peacefully in the trees must at least FEEL better than to be eaten alive, right?
I watched the egg-carton nest-condo on and off for an hour from the kitchen window, waiting for mama or papa to show up. Everytime a bird was in the slightest proximity to the lilacs, I would wonder (sometimes out loud), like some over-anxious foster mother waiting for the new adoptive parents to show up, "is that the one? That robin? I bet that robin is the mama. Or that fat sparrow. No, definitely the robin."
Yeah, go ahead and laugh...it doesn't stop there, either--no, in my addled brain, fueled with mama-milk hormones (prolactin's the biggie), I decided I needed to feed the bird. Seriously. Okay, by now you're probably wondering if I ate a few worms, vomited them up into a cup, and sucked up the snack w/a syringe for baby, right? Well, you're right about the cup and the syringe, but that's where it stops. The real craziness is that the only thing I could think to give this bird was a teeny amount of human baby formula (I have some from when I could not nurse due to a medicine that I had to take for a few days). Prepped, sucked into the syringe, and yep--baby bird drank some, desperately clinging onto the mouth of the syringe as if it were mama herself. I nearly cried.
I'm sure that in the end, it'll have been me that killed the bird. It might still be alive out there, but I'm guessing it has already died of exposure or possibly indigestion; sure, we've seen grown birds eating cheese before, but this is nonfat cow milk with a shitload of crazy human-growth vitamins. A tasty last meal, perhaps? A constipating cork of goo that overwhelmed an underdeveloped digestive system? All of the above. I couldn't leave it alone. I couldn't leave it unfed. The poor little thing didn't stand a chance.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Phountains of Phlegm
Everyone's sick. Sebastian's laying beside me on the couch, sounding like a rock tumbler, in a lightly feverish snooze. Bea and Michael are curled up in bed upstairs; she's in and out of fevers, he's trying to crawl out of virus-induced lethargy. I'm still ill too, but I'm awake for some strange reason. I think I needed to twiddle about the internet, uninterrupted, for the first time in a week; Beatrice hasn't nursed this much since she was a newborn, and I'm astounded to find a laptop in my lap, rather than a feverish baby.
Some way to spend your 1st birthday; she was due on the 20th (yeah, yeah, 4/20, I know), but thankfully she was spared a lifetime of pot and Hitler-referenced birthday memories by having the good grace to come out on the 21st. Hopefully she'll be well for her big day, and I can take a ridiculous amount of cute pictures of my beautiful babe.
Just finished "His Dark Materials" book 3: "The Amber Spyglass" by Philip Pullman; it was so very, very good, that I'm sad its over--but then, I'm happy for that, because I love it when a good book is so good that it makes me sad. I've moved on to "Hellraisers: The Life and Inebriated Times of Richard Burton, Richard Harris, Peter O'Toole, and Oliver Reed." I first heard it mentioned on NPR, and to my surprise, it's not a new release, just newly paperbacked. It's astonishingly detailed and rather poorly punctuated and edited, but it's a riveting read about the naughtiest of the naughty British actors to ravage the screen/stage/pub/women...
Bleh. More coughing and sneezing. Not that this is vital information to a reader, but I think I'll mosey along, to blog again another day.
Some way to spend your 1st birthday; she was due on the 20th (yeah, yeah, 4/20, I know), but thankfully she was spared a lifetime of pot and Hitler-referenced birthday memories by having the good grace to come out on the 21st. Hopefully she'll be well for her big day, and I can take a ridiculous amount of cute pictures of my beautiful babe.
Just finished "His Dark Materials" book 3: "The Amber Spyglass" by Philip Pullman; it was so very, very good, that I'm sad its over--but then, I'm happy for that, because I love it when a good book is so good that it makes me sad. I've moved on to "Hellraisers: The Life and Inebriated Times of Richard Burton, Richard Harris, Peter O'Toole, and Oliver Reed." I first heard it mentioned on NPR, and to my surprise, it's not a new release, just newly paperbacked. It's astonishingly detailed and rather poorly punctuated and edited, but it's a riveting read about the naughtiest of the naughty British actors to ravage the screen/stage/pub/women...
Bleh. More coughing and sneezing. Not that this is vital information to a reader, but I think I'll mosey along, to blog again another day.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
In Just Seven Days...
"Let the great experiment begin!" --Tobias Funke
We've officially begun potty training (pee training, really, as Sea Bass is already poo-trained) in a flurry of new (Thomas) train undies, bribery, stickers, a potty poster (which will receive aforementioned stickers), and a promise of delightful prizes to come to he who can remain dry sans-diaper. So far, so good; the diaper is on during sleepy-time, but he doesn't seem to mind showing off his new knickers during the rest of the day. I hope this works.
In other news about my spawn:
Beet Rice is eating solid foods. Finally. She resisted all the usual, standard, bland baby fare for whatever we eat: tonight it was mixed-veggie quinoa risotto w/yogurt. She ate seconds.
Random details for you about me:
I've been going to the YMCA 2-3 times/week to ...sigh...(how I abhor the following phrase for its cliche) 'work out'. I found out I don't hate jogging as much as I thought I did, especially when doing it to "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" soundtrack; it's incredibly humorous and po-mo to hear Tim Curry's vibrato trilling out "I Can Make You a Man" while watching the beefy weight lifters beside my treadmill lifting 50 lb. barbells above their heads in time with the beat of the song...It's all really surreal in that little, sweaty body factory in the basement of the Y...
More later, surely...I suppose I should try to find more readers for this silly enterprise.
We've officially begun potty training (pee training, really, as Sea Bass is already poo-trained) in a flurry of new (Thomas) train undies, bribery, stickers, a potty poster (which will receive aforementioned stickers), and a promise of delightful prizes to come to he who can remain dry sans-diaper. So far, so good; the diaper is on during sleepy-time, but he doesn't seem to mind showing off his new knickers during the rest of the day. I hope this works.
In other news about my spawn:
Beet Rice is eating solid foods. Finally. She resisted all the usual, standard, bland baby fare for whatever we eat: tonight it was mixed-veggie quinoa risotto w/yogurt. She ate seconds.
Random details for you about me:
I've been going to the YMCA 2-3 times/week to ...sigh...(how I abhor the following phrase for its cliche) 'work out'. I found out I don't hate jogging as much as I thought I did, especially when doing it to "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" soundtrack; it's incredibly humorous and po-mo to hear Tim Curry's vibrato trilling out "I Can Make You a Man" while watching the beefy weight lifters beside my treadmill lifting 50 lb. barbells above their heads in time with the beat of the song...It's all really surreal in that little, sweaty body factory in the basement of the Y...
More later, surely...I suppose I should try to find more readers for this silly enterprise.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Taste My Prose-y Stew! Eat it!
Become the successful mom everyone's* been talking about: Blog, then zine, then rant, then share it with the world to become a successful mom-author and enjoy accolades heaped upon applause engorged by bon mots! Oy. I haven't even figured out how to make a new paragraph on Blogger without accidentally deleting something; how the hell am I supposed to convey my thoughts about myself and my wee world when I am totally outshone by so many successful mama writers that precede me? I'm relatively new to this world of electronic whining and already I'm fitting in by complaining about what I don't know and how what I don't know is making so many others successful.
Is blogging about your daily life the new way to make it big? Is this the last (or at least the newest) refuge of the stay-at-home mom/hausfrau/hip mama? Do I need to outwit the wittiest breeder of the bunch to stay on top of the mamablogs? I'm awash in despair with the possibilities of prose that has already been written. The blank screen is not as bad as the blank page--it's worse. On paper (or papyrus or grocery receipt or napkin or back of your hand), you control your little creative universe and the gargantuan beastie of fear that resides in the back of your amygdala (the one that tells you: it's been done, you're a failure, no one will read this pap anyway). Online, it's out there. It ain't coming back. As Sally so wisely said to Harry: "...it's already out there. You can't take it back." Brave pap, smarmy crap, yap, yap, yap. I'm so afraid to continue this sentence that I'm actually listening closely for the blog b.s. detectors at the door.
I'll have to continue this when I get a chance to summon my remaining courage. Perhaps after a brownie.
*everyone: i.e., me and a bunch of other mamas looking for commonality in our hippy-crunchy attachment parenting ways.
Is blogging about your daily life the new way to make it big? Is this the last (or at least the newest) refuge of the stay-at-home mom/hausfrau/hip mama? Do I need to outwit the wittiest breeder of the bunch to stay on top of the mamablogs? I'm awash in despair with the possibilities of prose that has already been written. The blank screen is not as bad as the blank page--it's worse. On paper (or papyrus or grocery receipt or napkin or back of your hand), you control your little creative universe and the gargantuan beastie of fear that resides in the back of your amygdala (the one that tells you: it's been done, you're a failure, no one will read this pap anyway). Online, it's out there. It ain't coming back. As Sally so wisely said to Harry: "...it's already out there. You can't take it back." Brave pap, smarmy crap, yap, yap, yap. I'm so afraid to continue this sentence that I'm actually listening closely for the blog b.s. detectors at the door.
I'll have to continue this when I get a chance to summon my remaining courage. Perhaps after a brownie.
*everyone: i.e., me and a bunch of other mamas looking for commonality in our hippy-crunchy attachment parenting ways.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Monday, August 3, 2009
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