All I'm Saying there's a joke in here somewhere

A few weeks ago, Freya started doing what can only be called singing. She tunes up with a few minor squawks and garbles, then launches into the infant version of show tunes. We call it "Seagull Murder Singalong," because that's about what it sounds like--shorebirds being put through a wood-chipper.

She's yodeling right alongside me as I type. I don't know that she'll appreciate this particular post when she's older. Especially if all this lung development is leading up to a career in opera.

This is the field out behind our house--the photo is taken from the guest room upstairs:

See those black piles out in the field? That's poop. The field is owned by the city of Boise, and leased back to a farmer. Eventually the field will be a park. In the meantime, it is farmed. This year it was straw; last year it was silage corn. So now the harvest is over, and it's time to compost. With the stinkiest, nastiest, smelliest cow flop available in the greater Treasure Valley.

And guess what comes tidily bundled up in the cow flop? Fly eggs. And fly eggs hatch. Here's a shot of what our screen door looks like right now:

I'm about to go nuts. Every time we open the screen door to let the dogs in or out, we get ten flies entering the house. You'd think the laws of chance would work out so that ten flies would exit the house as well, but it isn't working out that way. I'm really hoping for a hard freeze. Soon.

I realize that I haven't made many baby-related posts lately. I can assure you, I do still have a child and am aware of her whereabouts. There's not a whole lot to report: she's teething (two have cut through), it makes her a little fussy but not unmanageable, and she's otherwise doing great. She loves the dogs, as referenced in the photo below:

And I would like to just mention that a few minutes ago, I asked my husband if he wanted to take Freya for a little while or if I should bring her upstairs with me while I blog. He gave me some roundabout answer that was supposed to be funny and wasn't, so I put Freya on his lap and came upstairs. And guess who else came upstairs? The whole fam-damily! Matt, carrying Freya, followed by the dogs! And they all plunked down on the floor, Matt saying, "All the good baby toys are up here in the office! Oh, did you want some alone time?"

He figured it out, but at the expense of becoming over half of the content of tonight's post. Is it just my husband, or do all husbands wander around behind their wife, regardless of how uninteresting whatever she is doing happens to be?

Matt and I took the kiddo to her first Western Idaho Fair yesterday. Since I've lived in Idaho my whole life, I've been more than a time or two, but have not gone at all in recent years. Too many drunken rednecks, for the most part.

We figured Saturday morning would be a good time to go, as most folks wouldn't have had a lot of time to get all tuned up yet. And you know, it was really a lot of fun. It used to be that I wanted to go on all the midway rides. Now I want to go check out the livestock. Not sure why that is...but I do like seeing the goats and pigs and draft horses. I'm not one for llamas though, so that's usually a very brief peek.

This year, they had a kids' petting zoo full of very friendly little goats, cattle (including a Watusi and a Highland bull), some pigs and some chickens hatching. I'm not sure exactly how much Freya really registered, but she did get to pet a big dairy cow. I think she figured it was a really big doggie.

Then we went in search of fried Oreos, which were a hot item at last year's fair. Sadly, we couldn't find the booth and we settled for churros instead. This was after our barbeque lunch, where Matt ate a giant turkey leg and I had bbq'ed ribs. Mm!

Finally, the day culminated in a stop by the Eastern Oregon Onion Growers booth, where we got to spin the Big Wheel O' Onion Prizes to try to win a nice shirt with an onion logo on it. I am very proud to say that I won a sack of onions, which was just what I wanted.

What a day!

Matt and I attended the "Sneak Peek" of the new Cabela's store here in Boise. For those of you who aren't wackadoo outdoors-people, Cabela's is the Mecca of all outdoor gear-heads. They sell boats, fishing rods, guns, clothes, anything you can cover with camoflage fabric (and I'm talking anything from sofas to diaper covers), shoes, tents, sleeping bags, freeze-dried meat and God only knows whatall else.

The big thing about Cabela's stores are their dioramas of stuffed, dead wildlife. They build big fake mountains in the center of the store, and plunk a bunch of taxidermied stuff all over. It's kind of neat, really. Matt and I have been to about three different Cabela's over the years to check them out.

So the big Boise opener is tomorrow, and we got in on the preview. It's...okay. There certainly weren't any bargains available that I could see, but the dead stuff looked neato. Oh, and Freya really enjoyed the giant aquariums full of fish (live, not dead and stuffed). She hollered her little head off while we were looking at the fish--she may have been exhibiting dolphin tendencies. I'm sure the frequencies she uses would have beached a pod or two, had we lived closer to an ocean.

I managed to make it out of there without buying anything. But...I did try on an awesome pair of jeans (yes, they're from Wrangler but they're not cowgirl camel-toe jeans). These things truly fit amazingly well and they made me look super slender. And they're long enough! It's tough having a 33 inch inseam and finding jeans that aren't halfway up my shins every time I sit down. So--awesome jeans. I just found them for $15 less on E-bay, that's all. Sorry, Cabela's. But thanks for the free hors d'oeurves.

I am about to go batshit crazy with people who call me on the phone. In my world, especially now that I have a child, phone conversations need to have a defined start, a concise middle part, and a firm ending. And that middle part better by-god involve a little something called a POINT. I have had way too many pointless conversations lately, and these aren't conversations with telemarketers. No, they're with people I need to be nice to. But they make it so hard.

A recent example would include the following conversation with Peg*:

Me: This is Casey.
Peg: Oh, hi...hang on a second... (murmured conversation in the background)
Me: ...
Peg: Okay, yeah. Hi.
Me: What can I do for you?
Peg: Oh. Well, how is everything?
Me: Good. You?
Peg: Oh. Fine. Listen... (more murmuring) ...Hey, did you get that
thing?
Me: What thing?
Peg: ... Yeah. Uh, that thing about that job.
Me: I think I need more information.
Peg: Hey, can I call you back?

*Names have been changed to protect the innocent. (Me.)

First of all, when someone calls me, they are taking up MY time. I would really appreciate it if there was a rough script in their head of what they want to say, and it could possibly include a couple of different options in case the script doesn't go the way they think it does. Spontenaity is good, in that it doesn't derail an entire train of thought, you know? Peg calls me about three times a day. She is also an exceptionally nice person, and it would completely ruin her whole day if I yelled at her and told her my time was too valuable for her dithering. God, how I hate dithering.

So. Anyone have any good coping mechanisms that I can employ? It is important that I listen, because I never really know when Peg is going to actually make her point. And God knows there's nothing I'd less like to do than ask her to repeat something.

Rabbi Shmuley of TLC's "Shalom in the Home" has been banned from my house due to this:

With this particular couple, the situation was even worse. Their sex life had died completely, and one of the main causes was the mother's obsession with breast-feeding well into the child's eleventh month. The baby was attached to his mother like a limb, and he even slept with her every night, consigning her husband to a different bedroom.

In the end, there are two effects of breast-feeding that we often refuse to acknowledge. One is the de-eroticization of a woman's body, as her husband witnesses one of the most attractive parts of her body serving a utilitarian rather than romantic purpose. This is not to say that breast-feeding isn't sexy. Indeed, the maternal dimension is a central part of womanliness. But public breast-feeding is profoundly de-eroticizing, and I believe that wives should cover up, even when they nurse their babies in their husband's presence. (I'd like to just slap his face off for that comment.)

I believe this same problem comes up when men witness childbirth up close. There are certain poses in which a husband should not see his wife. By all means, be there for the entire labor, as I have been for the births of each of my eight children. But I strongly agree with the advice of the ancient rabbis that husbands should not be staring at the actual delivery. That is just too erotic a part of a wife's anatomy for it to become a mere birth canal.

I am just staggered by this kind of thinking. My husband helped pull Freya from the birth canal. And from the expression on his face and from the things he has said about that, I think he'd pretty much take that experience over any sex he's ever had in his life. In fact, he might trade it for all the sex he's ever had in his life.

I'm just not sure what Rabbi Shmuley thought breasts were for in the first place. I love over on the comments section of the article where one responder asks what he thought the Israelite babies ate while their families were wandering in the wilderness...

I just noticed that my stats are showing that I have received several hits lately from folks searching the phrase, "Two Beers Away From a Beautiful Day," the title of a recent post I made.

Well, if you're wondering, that's the title to an old country song by Moe Bandy and Joe Stampley, who teamed up on some classics, the names of which I can't really remember right now, except for the slightly obvious, "Hey Moe (Hey Joe)."

So. If you've made it this far, I did a search for the full lyrics and can't find them. What I remember:

"I'm two beers away
From a beautiful day
After a night on the town.
Just two beers away
From a beautiful day.
If I can just keep them down..."

Does that give you any clue at all of how far down a dirt road I was raised? (Hint: farther than you can toss a cat.)

You know those e-mails you sometimes get from friends that have a list of "things every woman should have" (and I recognize that some of you more masculine or friendless types may not receive them), and they include things like:

A pair of shoes you spent too much money on but love;
A love you left behind you can always return to;
And God knows what other nauseating crap.

Well, as I remembered today, one of those things ought to be a friend who tells you that you are not nuts, and then provides evidence proving that. It's even better if that friend can reference their own experiences and show times where they have felt the same way--because you know they are certainly not nuts.

Thanks for the perspective today, V.

I went in to the dermatologist and had my big, hairy witch mole removed. It was on my temple right near the hairline. The BHWM had been with me for many years, but had recently started to get...somehow...taller. And because it was so near my hairline, it had its own hair.

As you know, you really shouldn't just go through your life with a big, hairy witch mole attached to any portion of your anatomy, but especially not a part that is so publicly visible.

I thought it would just be a consult at the dermatologist's office, with the actual removal occurring at some point in the future. The assistant said to me, "So why do you want to get that removed?" I said, "Because it is a big, hairy witch mole." She said, "Oh, no it isn't!" I said, "Trust me, I could be scaring my grandkids with this thing in thirty years. It's gotta come off."

So much to my surprise, they whipped out some anesthetic, numbed me up and whacked that sucker right off my head. It's off to get biopsied (shouldn't be an issue), and then I think it is headed for Hollywood to be cast in bit parts in horror films.

I had a dream the other night that I had started working at a ginormous furniture store here in town, RC Willey. (Odd in itself, as it is primarily LDS and I wouldn't be a good fit at all.) I had literally been working for about a half-hour, long enough to establish that my new boss was a real bitch (and also Wendy Malick from various TV shows in the past). Suddenly, Charo walked in and wanted to buy a picture frame.

"Wow, a celebrity client!" I thought. But then I realized that I didn't even have access to the tills to ring up the sale, and I was keeping the fabulous, coochie-coo Charo waiting. She was very pleasant about it all. But my boss, Wendy Malick, was staring daggers at me. Finally she took over the sale, then fired me for delaying our important celebrity client.

I have no idea where the hell all that came from.

I'm the continued primary caregiver tonight, as Matt is working late. However, I can't leave you hanging for content (on a weeknight!), so here's a shot of Freya I took today.

She's got one lower incisor that has poked through, and I think another is hot on its heels. She seems to be the sort of teether that gets congested, which I guess isn't abnormal. Babies can just be weird, I guess. And she's such a sweetie about it; you can tell it is bothering her, but she'll smile even as she's fussing. She's turned into such a sweet kid.

God, I feel like such a sot: still breastfeeding and I've had two brewskis tonight. Call CPS.

We had our neighbors over for dinner--the neighbors of whom the wife is Freya's care giver during part of the week. They all had two beers too! Beer is good for breast milk production; did you know that?

Not that I am justifying myself to you, Internet.

I just have to note that Freya has taken three naps today, totaling something like four hours of daytime sleep.

This is soooo nice. I know part of it is because she had her 6 month vaccinations yesterday and she's sleeping it off a bit. But damn, a girl could get used to this!

No, seriously. I think I'm getting gnawed. As I've noted before, Freya cosleeps and ends up nursing quite a bit through the night. This past week, she and I have both been suffering from allergies or something, plus she's cut out her pre-bedtime poop. So the last few nights have been hellish fitful.

The last couple of nights, she's been doing this really unpleasant nursing thing where she'll give a couple of sucks, pop off and roll over, then roll back and suck a couple times again. Then she pops off. It'll go on like that as long as I'll let it, which is about a minute or so before I just can't handle it any more. But last night...last night...I think I felt something. There was a little extra "ouch" there. And today our care-giver said, "I think she's got a tooth coming in."

*cue dramatic music*

I've really been hoping the Little Miss would be a late teether. And by late, I mean, "After she's done nursing." As I've mentioned in the very recent past, she's showing no signs of being ready for that, and I'm not in a hurry to wean her. Don't get me wrong, here: I'm pro-tooth. I think teeth are great. There are just certain portions of my anatomy that I don't feel like teeth need to come into direct contact with. I know that they learn to nurse without biting and that lots of women survive this (as do mother grizzly bears and females of other large predatory species). I just...yeeow!

This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass.

Dear Freya,

Six months. Half a year. A lifetime. Your half-birthday came and went yesterday, and while we didn't do anything notable about it, the fact thatyou are now half a year old has been resounding in my mind for days. It went so fast, and yet it seems somehow eternal, in that you're such a fundamental part of me that I am pretty sure you have been in my soul forever. You just somehow...manifested recently.

Since my agreement allowing me to bring you to work with me expired when you turned six months, you're now spending your days a little differently. I work from home several mornings a week, and our neighbor across the street, Tess, is taking care of you most of the rest of the time. However, your daddy is trying to take every Monday afternoon off so that you and he can spend some special daddy & daughter time together. Yesterday was his first crack at that.

I wouldn't be speaking honestly if I said there wasn't a part of me that wanted it to be difficult for him, so that he knows that I work really hard at being your mom. I think he realizes that on the upper levels of his brain, but I'm not sure it registers at the gut level. However, you threw me for a bit of a loop, because I came home after being away from you for four hours to find you and your father both in a crazy-joyous mood. You two had a wonderful time enjoying each others' company. Actually, that is a whole lot better than what the little revenge part of my brain had been hoping for; you could not have brought him more on-board with spending an afternoon each week alone with you by doing anything else. Now he's rabidly looking forward to all the Monday afternoons ahead. He's talking about buying an annual pass to the zoo.

Another milestone was reached at six months: I set out to breastfeed you for at least the first six months of your life. We made it! Getting started was difficult, but it has been incredibly worth it, just on a bonding level. Then we can factor in all the health benefits, yadda yadda, and I am really proud of both of us. We've sailed past that goal, and now I'm wondering just how long we'll be continuing it. We've been trying to feed you on solid foods. Sweet potatos, rice cereal, oatmeal, bananas and applesauce have all met with some pretty emphatic rejection on your part. You get a little food in your mouth and look at the person on the other end of the spoon like, "Why in the hell did you just do that?" You like the
boob. Boob is all you need. And that's okay, since I can get home from work to feed you on a schedule. However, I insist that you wean yourself one of these days. I don't want to be one of those moms that other moms talk about. Please.

So the next six months--what have you got in store for us? Walking, talking, teeth, maybe a haircut, who knows?

Thank you for being you.
Love,
Mommy

How does this photo make you feel? Happy to see a cute baby having something to eat? Or shocked that I have a picture of (gasp) a female breast on my blog?

(Knowing you all and some of the searches I get hit with, I'll bet it's the former.)

But check this out: WASHINGTON (AFP) - Readers of a US parenting magazine are crying foul over the publication's latest cover depicting a woman breastfeeding, with some calling the photo offensive and disgusting.

"I was SHOCKED to see a giant breast on the cover of your magazine," one woman from Kansas wrote in reaction to the picture in Babytalk, a free magazine that caters to young mothers. "I was offended and it made my husband very uncomfortable when I left the magazine on the coffee table."

"Gross, I am sick of seeing a baby attached to a boob," the mother of a four-month-old said.

Go on and read the rest of the article. I have a lot to say, but I'm going to limit it here to stating that the people quoted above are just fucking stupid.

Sometimes you just don't do much relaxing on the weekend. At least I have my money to console me.

We held a yard sale yesterday. Our neighborhood is trying to do community sales once every few months. Not sure why, but whatever. Since we had quite a bit of crap hanging around, we decided to lighten our cosmic load and get rid of it. One thing I've noticed about yard sales, though: you never get rid of the really big crap. Like the SoloFlex machine Matt has been trying to offload for over a year. Or my snow tires. Most of the little junk sold, and then we hauled quite a bit of the leftovers to Goodwill. But if you're in the market for a SoloFlex or some snow tires, give me a holler.

I spent a fair amount of today putting in overtime.

So. That's my report. Anyone else do anything good?

Sherri just went to the BlogHer convention, made a post about her feelings regarding mommy-blogging, and stirred up a
colossal shitstorm in the process. Just read a few of the comments; I am reminded of the whole "Satanic Verses" thing where the Ayatollah or some-damn-body took out a hit on Salman Rushdie. To be perfectly honest, the post itself caused that little wrinkle between my eyebrows to deepen as I considered whether or not I made so many posts about Freya to qualify as a mommy-blogger.

However, I have known Sherri for (counting backwards on fingers) about
seven years now. We've been internet friends and haven't met in person, but have had near-daily contact on any number of subjects in a private forum for most of that time. I think I can say with confidence that she's not anti-mommy or anti-child, and particularly not anti-this mommy or that baby. I definitely see her point about how your average lucid woman tends to get subsumed by the feelings and joys and devastations that motherhood brings, and it is hard to not write about it. In fact, I don't not write about it, but I also have to make a really conscious effort to think of and write about things that do not revolve around my child.

Over the years, I've seen Sherri engaged in battle with a number of peopleregarding her opinions. She's sharp. She doesn't back down. If I had only three words to advise her nay-sayers with, they would be, "Hello?! RED HAIR!" I would also like to accompany those words with some sharp raps on their noggins with my knuckles. Feisty, that one.

Anyway, I guess my reason for posting is simply that I've been sitting back and reading all the brouhaha, and I'm seeing more of the censoring mentality that keeps those "too educational" programs off of public television. Change the damn channel, people.

Plus I'm hoping that this post causes my site stats to go up. I'm a whore that way.

While we were in Lava Hot Springs, we went to a little store that had some rustic kitsch for sale. I happened to see a sign listing various kinds of expensive sunglasses at bargain basement prices, so I asked to see a couple of the pairs. I'm in the market, because I have had the pair of Bolle' shades I wear daily for (get this) eight years now. I'm starting to feel a little behind the times. Might as well be wearing Wayfarers, ya know?

So the woman at the counter pulls out a basket with a bunch of sunglasses all jumbled together. Sure enough, there's a pair of Smith Toasters for $40. What really caught my eye was a classy pair of polarized Oakleys for $100. A close inspection showed scratches on the lenses. I asked what was up, and the woman told me that a lot of people float the river running through Lava on inner tubes and they lose their sunglasses. Somehow or another, a guy who works there finds the glasses, looks up the retail price on the internet, then sells them in this store for half price.

We left the store and I got to thinking. I'm Scandinavian. I come by my haggling blood honestly, though Matt is often embarassed when I point out flaws in items at retail stores and ask for a discount (even though I usually get it). We went back the next day and I offered $50 for the Oakleys, pointing out the scratched lenses. The woman countered at $75. I counter-countered at $65, and she went to ask the guy if he'd take it. She came back and said, "He said he'd keep them himself if he couldn't get a hundred for them." I said, "I'll let him do that, then."

God, it pissed me off. It still rankles! That guy FOUND the damn sunglasses--it isn't like he paid any money for them.

So. I'm still officially in the market for some shades. Any suggestions?