quid pro quo

In exchange for letting me post his goofy birthday picture, I now must post a picture of myself of Damon's choosing.  I am sorry, my five faithful followers.  Look away, baby, look away.

The Cloth Diaper

My mom gave me an Amazon gift card for my birthday.  Then I got a $105 speeding ticket.  In order to punish myself, I spent part of the gift card on a $12 cloth diaper, thinking, "If I use it 400 times, I'll have paid for the ticket."  This seemed totally plausible at the time.

The diaper arrived, and that first week, I used it almost every day ('cause I did a load of wash every day, see).  It was awesome because Julia was only urinating it.  Easy peazy.  Then she did a number two in it, but the stool was hard and rolled right into the toilet.  No problem.  Then the next week her stool was soft.  Super soft.  Smashed into the fuzzy diaper fabric soft.

So I spent 15 minutes bent over the toilet bowl trying to get the poo out.  The smell was horrific.  I threw it in the wash with lots of bleach.  It came out smelling the same way it did going in (a little less bad, I guess) with an after-sniff of Clorox.  No bueno.  Washed it again.  Still stinky but after all that work, it was going back on the baby by golly, who had decided this was her favorite thing to poop in.  Spent another 15 minutes over the toilet bowl.  Did some internet research.  Soaked it with baking soda in hot hot hot water, hand washed it with dish soap, and threw it in the washing machine with detergent and vinegar.  Finally came out smelling clean.

If you're my age and you know your mom used cloth diapers, call her up and tell her how much you love and admire her.  Think thoughts of gratitude for your grandmothers and great grandmothers.  I promise, these new expensive cloth diapers are a huge step up from what they used, and they're still a nightmare.  I'm astonished my mother had more children after me (I'm the oldest).  Once again I am reminded that my mom is extraordinary and tough like the pioneer women, while I am not so much.

This also leads to musings on what kinds of people today use cloth diapers in wealthy countries like ours.  (To women in 3rd world countries who have no alternative, we need to send love and prayers.  And maybe disposable diapers.)  I'm going to assume that cloth diapers really are more environmentally friendly, even after all the hot water, detergent, and bleach.  To believe otherwise would be to believe in a bitterly cruel joke on the environmentalist parents.  My conclusions on cloth diaperers:

1. They love Mother Earth more than their own lives or
2.  they care about the earth and can afford to pay someone else to do their laundry or
3.  they love doing laundry, especially if it involves feces or
4.  they feel a need to punish themselves for something they've done wrong.

Now go call your mom and pay homage.

Damon and his room

This young man was ordained to the Aaronic priesthood today:

He's a good kid with "a strong moral compass," as Lynsey likes to say.  Once, when he was 4 or 5, she tried to get him to eat some m&ms behind my back.  He refused.  Nothing she said could get him to take one.  "Have you asked my mom?" he kept asking her.  His biggest flaw is refusing to smile nicely at the camera.  This is the best picture I could get of him.  It's 5 million times better than the picture I have to post of myself as payback for putting the above picture on my blog.  Stay tuned for horrors you've never even dreamed of.

I've mostly finished his bedroom.  I am sorry for the black shadow in every top-right corner.  This is what happens when you let a baby play with your camera.

Here are the befores:

Removed popcorn ceiling and replaced with knock-down texture; replaced nasty rotting mini-blinds with cordless Roman shades.  1 room down.  11ish to go.  At present rate, should be done by 2021.

The $4 Jar Light

I didn't like the light over the kitchen table.  If you have time to kill, you can see it here when the video gets to "Open Kitchen with blah blah blah".  I forgot to take my own before picture but it was

Frosted glass
trimmed with brass
and now I'd better stop rhyming.

So I spray painted it with oil-rubbed bronze paint (which is what I did to every brass thing in our MI house, and which is why it sold in a week.  That, or we listed it for $10,000 less than what we should have.).  This time the spray paint failed me.  The light wasn't any prettier, and now it was also much less functional because I painted the glass along with the brass.  Alas, I forgot to take a picture again, but it was

Dark
like the far side of the moon,
The kitchen transformed
into interrogation room.

Then I found a $4 jar at Walt-Mart, and one of Julia's naps later our light looked like this:

The kids think it's stupid, but I'm proud of it.  It's functional, anyway.  And best of all, it still inspires bad poetry:

Home made Jar Light,
Twinkling like Star Light,
The children think you mar light
and call your design lunacy.
Their opinions don't matter:
The kitchen is not a democracy.

The Work Party

Professional photographers at work parties are the best.  They help you pretend you went to Prom with your spouse.  They also help you remember forever, if you're me, that you never wear the right thing work parties.  Every year when Jake tells me to save the date, I think, "I'm going to get something to wear for that."  Then, the party sneaks up on me, and once again, I'm left scrounging around in the closet for something that isn't there.  One of my [not so] secret [anymore] fantasies is that some day I'll be a millionaire with a person who does my shopping for me.  Someone with impeccable taste, so I never end up at another work party looking like a middle school teacher who thought she was going to Back to School Night, but somehow ended up at the fanciest hotel ballroom in town.  Where everyone else had the right thing to wear.  Oh well.  Jake acted like he wasn't embarrassed to be seen with me, anyway.

18 mo check up

I can't remember if I mentioned this, but back when Julia was 6 or 9 months old, her Michigan pediatrician recommended she have physical therapy because she wasn't into rolling or crawling.  I reluctantly complied, and regretted it, because in no time she was getting into things she didn't used to be able to get into.  At her 12 month check up, he recommended she be re-evaluated at 15 months, because she was borderline on needing intervention.  Then we moved, and I didn't get that 15 month check up because I had other things to worry about, and I refused to worry about the most delightful child on the planet.

So.  The Juje had her 18 month check up yesterday with her new Kansas doctor.  Here's how it went, starting with me, Juje, and the nurse alone in the room.

Nurse: Is she saying 15-20 words?

Me: No, we're a little worried about that.  She's more around 5 or 6.

Nurse: Can she point to 3 body parts?

Me: No, she only points to 1.

Nurse: Does she make animal sounds?

Me: Yeah, she moos.  [In my head I'm thinking Ah crud.  I thought animal sounds counted as words. This reduces her word list even more.]

The nurse leaves.  While we're waiting for the doctor I quiz Julia to make sure we're solid on things.

Me: Julia, where's your eye?

Julia points to her ear.

Me, panicking: No, Juje, that's your ear.  Ear.  Here's your eye.  Eye.  Good girl!

Anyway, the doctor comes in, we go over some of the same questions.  He asks some new ones like, "Is she stacking blocks?" to which I answer, "No, she only knocks them down."

Finally, bless his heart, he says, "Well, all kids progress at their own rate.  I think she's just fine, and that pretty soon she'll have a spurt.  If not, call me and we'll get her an appointment with a developmental pediatrician."

I wanted to hug him.  I had told myself before the appointment, "If they'll just give me a few months to finish Damon's room and the downstairs bathroom, I'll do whatever therapy she needs come spring. Summer would be even better.  Please, just give me a few months!"  Wish granted. 

If you are calling me names right now for being a bad mom, you are hereby banished from this blog.  I am not kidding.  Don't come back.  Unless you afterwards do extensive therapy with one or more of your children, learn your lesson, and are coming back to repent of your wicked thoughts. Amen.

Los Niños

Damon: enjoys chess club at school and went to his first chess tournament on Saturday.  6 rounds, he won 2 and had 1 stalemate.  Parents and coaches (yes, there are chess coaches. It was like that movie, Searching for Bobby Fisher) were not allowed in the room to watch.  Currently pondering ways to put lethal radiation from spent uranium rods to good use.  Also wants to invest money in natural gas.  I hope I can figure out how to buy some shares today--his heart is set on it.

Claire: enjoys drama club, and spends indoor recesses (when it's too cold to go outside) working on making a movie with her friends.  Tells me she's a really good actor.  Has a pet betta fish named Rainbow.  (I now believe betta fish are the best kind of pet to have, if your child must have a pet.)

Anne: A great help, especially when she pretends to be a dog and chases Julia/gets chased by Julia.  This allows me to make dinner, do dishes, etc, without Julia's "help."  Got an easy-bake oven for Christmas and has used it twice.  I got one when I was a kid, and I only remember using it once.  Alternates between hating piano one week and wanting to quit, and practicing hard the next week and not complaining.  Begs to tend Julia during sacrament meeting.  Jake doesn't think this is good, but I love it.  I can sit quietly and enjoy the meeting while Julia and Anne go out in the hall.

Julia: Just about 18 months old and says mama, dada, hi, bubbles, moo, and possibly dah for dog.  Likes to jump, do little tap dances while turning in circles, have books read to her (if they're low on words and high on pictures), scribble with markers (and sometimes suck on them), scribble with crayons (and then eat them) and watch TV.  If only the show could hold her attention for more than 10 minutes!  All you moms who don't let your babies watch TV, pat yourselves on the back and give each other high fives.  You're awesome.  Or something.  Is the most smiley, pleasant child you've ever met, particularly when she is getting her way.  Has just started throwing tantrums when I won't let her have things like the video camera.  She and I are in love with those baby food pouches.  They are an expensive habit, but so convenient and clean I want to kiss whoever thought them up.  Has started the dreadful habit of waking up at 2 or 4 a.m. and not going back to sleep unless it's with me on the couch.  I would love to let her cry it out, but she wakes up Claire, and Claire comes and gets me out of bed.  And then Claire, who is chronically sleep deficient anyway, doesn't always go back to sleep.  Yawn.