Isn’t that imaginatively titled? Well, I have not the words, but I still persevere.

I may have a new post up over at GNM. It’s not up yet (ed. to say: it’s up! I wrote about road trips this week), but then again it’s only 4:15 a.m. and the grasshoppers are probably sleeping. I am not sleeping. We have too much going on this weekend and I’m a little worried. It’ll all be fine. Or it won’t. That’s life.

Did you hear that they stopped handing out free formula in diaper bags at a bunch of hospitals? They did. Because they’re “supporting” breast feeding. What? Some of us do well with nursing. Some of us don’t. And some of us, in spite of the fact that our nipples crack and bleed, because we’ve given birth to “Barracuda Babies” (that was my Lactation Nazi’s description of both my kids) well, we press on and it works out.

In spite of the exhaustion.

In spite of our husbands shouting, like evil drill sergeants, “DO YOU WANT TO JUST STOP NURSING? DO YOU WANT ME TO JUST GO TO THE STORE RIGHT NOW AND BUY SOME FORMULA? IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT?”

My response to that was: “Yes.”

Yet he refused to go to the store! Tease. Luckily I had cases of the formula stashed in the pantry. (“Crack cocaine,” as Amalah’s unkind Breastfeeding Nazi described it. Here’s her post, go read it.) While I was pregnant I signed up to be on everybody’s mailing list — Similac, Enfamil, the Amazing Free Stuff site… And they all sent goodies. Thanks! Cuz I love some goodies.

I think we used one small can of the formula, or maybe we didn’t, who knows, then I gave the rest to the foodbank. They were thrilled. Turns out, it’s expensive and foodbanks are more than happy to take it from you.

Yes, I’m glad that breastfeeding worked out for me and my babies, in spite of the “nipple issues,” in spite of my losing 50 pounds in two months (combo wallop of thyroid problems and mommy-starvation from nursing. My babies were well-fed, I was ravenous), the hideous pumps, the people who gave me grief about “isn’t he/she a little old for that?” (My daughter nursed ’til she was 2; my son until 18 months.) Of course I’m glad. But if it hadn’t worked out?

I would have felt like crap because of all the shaming I would have gotten.

“Anger, if not restrained, is frequently more hurtful to us than the injury that provokes it.”

— Lucius Annaeus Seneca, philosopher (BCE 3-65 CE)

Seneca, you were smart! You philosophers — isn’t that the way it always goes? I am smart, too. I am trying to be 1) consistent 2) not angry 3) more patient. With the traffic, with the kids, with the weather, in my relationships. With the stuck-up pool ladies. (No, I’m not saying which pool. But here’s a clue to help narrow it down: The one with the most Stepford Wives. “…one of these things/is not like the other/one of these things/just doesn’t belong…” Can you guess? The thing that doesn’t belong is me.) (more…)

“About Feet”

by Margaret Hillert

The centipede is not complete
Unless he has one hundred feet.
Spiders must have eight for speed,
And six is what all insects need.
Other creatures by the score
Cannot do with less than four.
But two are quite enough, you know
To take me where I want to go.

STUFFED GRAPE LEAVES

One 16-oz jar grape leaves
2 T oil
1 onion, minced
3/4 cup raw basmati rice
1/4 cup pine nuts, toasted
1/2 tsp ground allspice
2 C stock (divided)
salt & pepper
2 T minced parsley
1 T lemon juice

Rinse grape leaves, pat dry, trim stems and set aside.

Heat oil in large skillet, add onion, saute. Stir in rice, pine nuts, allspice and 1 C stock (add more liquid if using brown basmati). Season with salt & pepper; bring to boil then let simmer until rice is cooked. Transfer filling to bowl, stir in parsley and let cool.

To stuff:
Place grape leaves, shiny side down, with stem end toward you. Place one tablespoon filling near stem end, fold in sides of leaf over the filling, roll the leaf away from you, and wrap firmly but not too tightly. Repeat.

Transfer grape leaves to 3 1/2-4 quart slow cooker, arranging in layers. Pour remaining stock, 1 T olive oil and lemon juice over stuffed leaves. Add water if needed. Cover. Cook on low for 4-6 hours. Uncover and cool. Serve at room temperature.

Thirteeners and Usual Suspects,

Are you hot? Hockey God is. No, I mean, really. It was warm today. Also, he’s sexy. We may run away together. Oh, wait! Already did. I mainly love him for many, many reasons. Scads of reasons. A plethora of reasons. Myriad reasons. But largely because (damn, one glass of wine and I can’t type):

13) He insults microwbrew drinkers. Which is about shocking in these parts of the woods.

12) He drinks vodka rocks, which is about sexy.

11) the big one. you know.

10) He gardens, mows the lawn, oh, wait. That’s me. He gardens and occasionally mows the lawn.

9) He plays hockey.

8) He’s romantic. He asked me to marry him when we ran off to Portugal.

7) Our wedding was perfect. I mean — so fun, so different, so just what I wanted. Perfect.

6) He figured out how to take care of our kids before I did. Me: Diaper wrap? Him: Voila!

5) He loves his family. He loves my family. He fell in love with my cat, Wacky Cat 1, before he fell in love with me. She’s kind of a handful, so this meant a lot to me.

4) He’s fairly tolerant of my superstitions and the way I insist on making the sign of the cross over him whenever I’m worried. (I do this to the kids, too.) (I know Unitarians supposedly rejected the whole Trinity business, but they are a tolerant people, so I feel free to worship as I please. And free to make the sign of the cross whenever I am so moved.)

3) When we got married, he asked my Granny, “Can I call you Grandma now?” which, you know. Made her weep. And he asked my Grandpa for my hand in marriage which, you know. Made my Grandpa and me both weep. For different reasons. My Grandpa: “Thank God she left that mental midget she was with before and is marrying an Iowa boy.” Me: “He is the sweetest guy I’ve ever met.” (sob.)

2) He is great to snuggle with. He’s like a big bear.

1) He gives me whatever I want.

HAPPY THURSDAY, EVERYONE!!!!

I’ve like, lost my mind. I know, I know, you’re all, “Again? Or still?”

I bought a KISS CD today. Right. Cuz I’m 12 again, at a KISS show at the Memorial Coliseum, with Cheap Trick opening, and I’m wearing tiny little cut-offs and a baby tee and I’m like SCREAMING AT THE TOP OF MY LUNGS and like, banging my head.

Cuz I was such a little rocker you have no idea. That was my first concert, I’m not kidding you. My poor mother. (She called KISS and Rush “HISS and hush.)

I’m all, “get up! and get your grandma out of here!” Only I’ve listened to Lenny Kravitz’s version of Deuce so many times that listening to KISS, I’m all — “Huh. This is what it sounds like when they do their own song? Huh.”

“…tells me what i’ve got to do/I’ve got to/GET UP!” (Detroit Rock City.)

(KISS is all about getting it up.)

(It would appear.)

(Not that I’m trying to analyze KISS lyrics, for fuck’s sake.)

My teenage boyfriend, Chad, went into a blind rage one day, I don’t know what the hell was up with him. He’d misplaced his retainer again or something. And he smashed all his KISS albums. Then he suggested I smash mine, because, “It felt so good to smash the shit out of those albums.” Me: “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

One of the boys in my seventh-grade class had a big crush on me and he wrote out the lyrics to “Beth” on his desk, only he wrote “Nance” instead of “Beth.” I was like, uh, he’s kind of kooky?

I also bought Hannah Montana 2 for Wacky Girl. Next to KISS? Hannah Montana SUCKS!!!! (Don’t tell my daughter I said that.)

I think I need to get out of the house and into the air-conditioned car for awhile.

“It’s not often that someone comes along who is a true friend, and a good writer. Charlotte was both.”
— E.B. White

I think of this poem now, because the spiders have taken over our yard, our house, our basement. The Queen Anne’s Lace is in full bloom; the blackberries are ripening. It smells like fall, and it’s August first.

I’ll miss it when Wacky Boy stops saying, “Awwight” and “dese and dose.”

Alright? He’s getting so big — he starts kindergarten in just a little over a month from now!

Dose will be happy days for him, and weepy days for me. Until I realize I have my days free. What? Coffee dates? Uninterrupted blocks of time to write? Lunch with my husband? What?

wm

New website I just heard about.

Overheard in my backyard, just now — someone talking to a kid from one of the neighbor’s yards:

“Damn. Stop, OK. OK? Shit. You share with your damn sister. Bitch.”

(Please let him have been talking to a dog, not a kid. A female dog.)

(No, it’s not “enough” to call child welfare.)