Katy's Secret Online Life

Casa Del Rio to Sublime, or how I made ugly thrift store chairs into works of beauty.

2012-01-08T13:55:00.000-07:00

I bought my dining room table about 10 years ago. I didn't have children, or money. It was a small table with 4 chairs and I think I paid about $100. Quite a bargain! Over the course of the years the veneer chipped, bubbled and warped. The top of the table was uneven, stained and pretty unappealing. Also, I have two kids now. The smaller table wasn't working well for crafts, dinner and everything else that dining tables are used for. So I packed up hubby and monsters and headed to Lowe's where I found a very large piece of wood and some nice stain. I removed the old, ugly table top and screwed on the now stained wood. In no time I had a super-sized table!
But the chairs. They were falling apart. Literally. Pieces would break off, screws would fall out and I had to reattach the seats constantly. This poor table. I should just put it out of its misery and send it to the dump, but the thought of shopping for a new table does not fill my heart with glee. Instead I keep replacing, recovering and refinishing. I have twice before recovered the chairs and I think I have replaced every screw at least once in all 4 chairs. Through all that, I was now left with one original chair. I had this great plan to get 5 more chairs, all of various design, and recover them all with the same fabric, possibly even paint them. It would look eclectic and cute (I hoped).
Before I could find even one chair I wanted to refinish, let alone 5, the lone hold out from the original 4 dies. No chairs. My dining table has no chairs. How did this happen?! So I grabbed my younger brother and we set off to scour thrift stores in search of 6 similar, yet different chairs that I would then make look fabulous. We walked into the first thrift store and found 5 of these.

Hideous purple things that look like they belong on the patio of a Mexican restaurant where you pour your own soda. But I saw potential! And at just $5 a piece I was willing to give them a chance.

I removed the seat with a screw driver and laid it on some fabric like so:

Cut the fabric, making sure I had plenty to wrap all the around and simply starting stapling. I used a Stanley t100 staple gun, just $15 at WalMart. The fabric I had from previous projects, but I didn't have quite enough for all 5 so I had to use coordinating fabric on 2 chairs. Maybe not the eclectic look I had originally envisioned but I now have seating for 5 and what amounts to a whole new dining set for a grand total of: $50

The problem with Pandora

2011-12-18T12:14:00.000-07:00

Is that you're happily singing along, hearing some great new artist the BAM! Out of no where, a song so painful that you had literally forgotten it existed. And there is no fast forward.

Brandi Carlile - Hallelujah & Forever Young- Live At Benaroya Hall W/ Th...

2011-11-15T00:28:00.001-07:00

I hope this song will guide you

2011-11-15T00:05:00.001-07:00

What would we discover next?

never lean on what will bend has become my newest life mantra.

2011-07-31T00:27:00.000-06:00

I am really kinda digging how my entire front page is nothing but music that likely fits my current mood. This is how I felt once upon a time and reliving it is a cathartic bittersweet revelry. And The Twins. They are rarely as as show-stopping as in this song.

You've drawn heavy handed lines around morality and I don't share your point of view.
It hurts to be the one that you'd regret.
I am proud because I know you.
You may not miss this. But I will.
It hurts to be the one that you'd regret.

Trevor!

2011-06-12T23:57:00.000-06:00

I met Trevor.
My tiny hero.
The little man that survived a horrific car crash and and what was likely to be a fatal traumatic brain injury. Somehow Trevor can take everything in my life and show me the other end of it all. Like a telescope turned around Trevor can show me how the microchasms of everyday life mean nothing when compared to the scope of our world.

This Girlychick's favorite song by Girlyman

2011-06-05T21:39:00.001-06:00

wilco would appreciate this

2011-05-26T14:38:00.000-06:00

Every lesson learned a line upon my face

2011-04-10T11:32:00.000-06:00

spring fever?

2011-03-31T22:53:00.000-06:00

I don't know why I am here. I don't know what I want to write or who I want to read it.
But some days, some nights, it takes every thing I have to keep breathing. The world can seem like a hostile place and occasionally one needs to retreat into one's shell and... just breathe. Let it all roll in and out without over thinking things.
So I somehow find myself here. Writing meaningless drivel and still unsure where to head from here.

Wilco?! Seriously? I don't even want to know.

2011-01-20T20:24:00.003-07:00

Someday Never Comes

2010-12-11T10:25:00.001-07:00

If I ever learn to play the guitar it will be so I can play this song with my own hands.

Snow!

2010-11-23T11:08:00.001-07:00

There is something magical about blizzards. There is this sense that the world is holding it's breath. The silence overtakes everything, even if you stay in the house. Maybe it's the thought of impending powder on the hills and knowing that I will be shooshing through it soon. Maybe it's the comfort of seeing all that deadly cold coming down while I am tucked cozily away at home with two of the cutest boys to ever exist. But blizzards make me want to curl up with a book, video game controller or a laptop to record my musings and snuggle with a strong cup of steaming coffee.
But motherhood is calling and my boys don't snuggle well. They are more the run wild through the house shooting each other and me while climbing the walls and ripping things apart. So instead I think we will make vegan sugar cookies in the shape of turkeys and pilgrim hats and decorate them with powdered sugar icing. But coffee is on and She & Him are playing in the background though so at least some of the blizzard peace is still in tact.

sigh.

2010-11-23T10:52:00.006-07:00

never make someone else your hero.

Secret by The Pierces

2010-11-08T22:43:00.001-07:00

I am absolutely abuzz with my new-found love for The Pierces! What an amazingly creepycool sound they have.
This song isn't necessarily indicative of their overall musical stylings but how freaking cool is it?! It has this odd sexy/stalker feel to it that I find strangely captivating.

Just search Youtube for The Pierces if you are even half as twitterpated as I am right now.

Go, Mom!

2010-11-04T22:14:00.000-06:00

Another gorgeous fall day. Twice this week I have spent my evening at the local roadside climb. It is already November and the leaves have only just started to turn and drop. Days that should be considered blustery have instead been filled with sunshine, open doors and warm rocks. All the locals were at the crag tonight, we don't waste these evenings if it can be helped.
As the golden sun was not yet set behind the Bannock Range I started up a climb that would have once been within my skill set. I knew a clean ascent would elude me tonight. Flushed basalt rubbed my raw fingers as I started up. I looked down at my little sister and double checked her stance. “I won't get this, Lyndsey,” I hollered. She rolled her eyes and yelled something back in typical teenage fashion. Just keep climbing, I thought to myself. A ledge that couldn't easily hold a nickel was my only hand hold, but I've seen worse. At least this ran the width of the route. Small foot holds were tolerably stable but an inexperienced belayer kept me from putting too much faith into any hold. I floundered a bit, testing holds and not moving much. My already tender hands were taking the brunt of my insecurities and the warm sun was threatening to disappear quickly and leave a chill to remind us that this reprieve was a temporary gift.
Rick was belaying near me and he kindly called out some beta. Rick may have been climbing these rocks before there was a city nearby. Or dirt. If grizzly old Rick tells you where to put your hands, listen. So listen I did. Moving left along the nickel-sized shelf I eventually found some small crimpers to grab. Breathing hard and trying not to groan with effort I reached for a far right hold using nothing but friction to lean into the rock and keep my body steady. All sounds faded as my world became focused into the ancient stone in front of me. A loud sigh escaped from me as I reached, clinging to what I could, climbing higher by inches. This is what I love. That silence, the way it all stops as my mind and body have condensed into a single moment, a single move, a single rock. And breaking through all that came one of the most beautiful sounds I have been blessed enough to hear. “Go, Mom!” shouts my 3 year old. I laughed and turned around to see a beaming boy scrambling up some low lying rocks several yards away. Pride written across his face he turns to the son of a friend of mine and says, “My mom can climb SO high.” As my precious silence was shattered by the ensuing battle of whose mom was cooler (I didn't bother to inform my smitten son that Felix's mom, was in fact a much better climber than I) I simply reveled in the cacophony of it all, my sought after silence replaced by the joyous sounds of motherhood.

social networking

2010-11-03T14:30:00.000-06:00

I have, on different occasions and for assorted reasons, shut down or privatized my assorted internet profiles. I have deleted my writings in fits of anger, eradicated a MySpace profile that was several years old, removed contacts from Gtalk, blocked people on Facebook because I didn't think they deserved to read my supremely lame status updates and even set this blog to be unreadable to everyone. I Tweeted once upon a time, for about 2 days, but I found it completely unsatisfying. And I have even boycotted certain email-friends due to their lack of adequate responses. I have been mulling this personality trait lately and I think I figured out why I am so quick to react to a lack of response.
Friendships don't have some intrinsic value simply for their own sake. Call me selfish, you'd hardly be the first, but if I put some thought and effort into communicating I want it to be returned. I believe this is why Twitter held no appeal for me. You just put your thoughts out in the ether and then what? I don't seek simple publication. No. I want communication, reciprocation, interrogations and revelations! These things cannot be had in 160 characters, or as a monologue. It may be why I occasionally private my blog and Facebook pages. It is frustrating to me that I can put thoughts down, anyone can read what I write, but there is no effort of returning the friendship on anyone else's part.
But then in my typically fickle fashion my reasons tend to lose their purpose or my frustration loses its luster. I usually vow to "never post anything of a personal nature again anyway" and I undo all privacy settings. After all, in my natural mercurial ways I forgive easily, change quickly and look back rarely.

brandi

2010-10-19T16:49:00.000-06:00

I have been so obsessed with Brandi Carlile lately.
I made a pretty awesome mix CD that is on constant repeat in my Jeep and when she isn't crooning her blessed voice into my brain through GM supported speakers she is singing her lullabies in my head. While trekking through The Subway of Zion (I still need to finish that trip report) Brandi heralded Late Morning Lullabies, Have You Ever and The Story. Her cherubic voice kept up a constant stream of beatific melodies to enhance the experience of what was already an amazing walk. Geologic time periods slipped by while an angel teased me with visions of Sunday mornings spent tangled in flannel sheets with a guitar played just for me in a room set away from the world.
But the last few days have been different. Gone are the carefree melodies of an ever fleeting youth and left in their wake are memories of a place from which I was forcibly removed. The other occupant a mirage of distance and circumstance.
Somehow the carols of Ms. Carlile instantly return me to a bittersweet life that never was.
I need to find a new CD on which to obsess.

How to Cook a Squirrel - Food Media - Top Stories - CHOW

2010-10-17T22:06:00.000-06:00

How to Cook a Squirrel - Food Media - Top Stories - CHOW: "- Sent using Google Toolbar"

I didn't click the link. If you do let me know what I'm missing. Censor the graphic bits, of course!

To the Evening Star by William Blake

2010-10-11T14:40:00.002-06:00

Thou fair hair'd angel of the evening,
Now, while the sun rests on the mountains light,
Thy bright torch of love; Thy radiant crown
Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!
Smile on our loves; and when thou drawest the
Blue curtains, scatter thy silver dew
On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes
In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on
The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes
And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full, soon,
Dost thou withdraw; Then, the wolf rages wide,
And the lion glares thro' the dun forest.
The fleece of our flocks are covered with
Thy sacred dew; Protect them with thine influence.Golden Apollo, that thro' heaven wide
Scatter'st the rays of light, and truth's beams,
In lucent words my darkling verses dight,
And wash my earthy mind in thy clear streams,
That wisdom may descend in fairy dreams,
All while the jocund hours in thy train
Scatter their fancies at thy poet's feet;
And when thou yields to night thy wide domain,
Let rays of truth enlight his sleeping brain.
For brutish Pan in vain might thee assay
With tinkling sounds to dash thy nervous verse,
Sound without sense; yet in his rude affray,
(For ignorance is Folly's leasing nurse
And love of Folly needs none other's curse)
Midas the praise hath gain'd of lengthen'd ears,
For which himself might deem him ne'er the worse
To sit in council with his modern peers,
And judge of tinkling rimes and elegances terse.

And thou, Mercurius, that with wing?d brow
Dost mount aloft into the yielding sky,
And thro' Heav'n's halls thy airy flight dost throw,
Entering with holy feet to where on high
Jove weighs the counsel of futurity;
Then, laden with eternal fate, dost go
Down, like a falling star, from autumn sky,
And o'er the surface of the silent deep dost fly:

If thou arrivest at the sandy shore
Where nought but envious hissing adders dwell,
Thy golden rod, thrown on t 1000 he dusty floor,
Can charm to harmony with potent spell.
Such is sweet Eloquence, that does dispel
Envy and Hate that thirst for human gore;
And cause in sweet society to dwell
Vile savage minds that lurk in lonely cell

O Mercury, assist my lab'ring sense
That round the circle of the world would fly,
As the wing'd eagle scorns the tow'ry fence
Of Alpine hills round his high a?ry,
And searches thro' the corners of the sky,
Sports in the clouds to hear the thunder's sound,
And see the wing?d lightnings as they fly;
Then, bosom'd in an amber cloud, around
Plumes his wide wings, and seeks Sol's palace high.

And thou, O warrior maid invincible,
Arm'd with the terrors of Almighty Jove,
Pallas, Minerva, maiden terrible,
Lov'st thou to walk the peaceful solemn grove,
In solemn gloom of branches interwove?
Or bear'st thy AEgis o'er the burning field,
Where, like the sea, the waves of battle move?
Or have thy soft piteous eyes beheld
The weary wanderer thro' the desert rove?
Or does th' afflicted man thy heav'nly bosom move?

Snyder v. Phelps: Inside the Supreme Court's Free Speech Showdown

2010-10-07T08:41:00.000-06:00

Snyder v. Phelps: Inside the Supreme Court's Free Speech Showdown

These people make me sick. I want to find them and... I don't even know. I want to scream and use violence on them. Spew on them all the anger that I feel in regards to their disgusting actions. I also want to sit them down and calmly explain that they are being hateful, hurtful and unkind.
To give a bit of context here, I am not particularly fond of the war in which we're currently engaged. I hope to never have a funeral and I don't attend them willingly. I think grief should be much more private and less organized than most funerals allow. Although I do my part to support the men and women that choose to spend their lives defending our country, I do not as a whole support our military system.
But I also do not think my own beliefs should be imposed on anyone else. I make sure to send packages of goodies overseas and I do attend the funerals of my loved ones. My beliefs are private and there is a time and place to discuss such sensitive subjects. At the funeral of a man who died doing something he felt was right, just and necessary is not the time to share your controversial and detestable opinions.
Hate-mongering is not free speech. Attacking a bereaved family that has nothing to do with your rather psychotic cause is not free speech! It is harassment and it should not be protected under the first amendment, instead it should be prosecuted as harassment. These people should be forced to pay the $5 million in damages as awarded by the first court in which this suit was heard. These people should have charges brought up on them for disturbing the peace, harassment and any other charge that lawyers and police can imagine.
Or better yet, we should shoot a few of the leaders and hold up signs at their funerals congratulating ourselves and declaring their deaths to be God's will.

wanderlust

2010-10-06T15:52:00.000-06:00

I want to go everywhere. I want to do everything.
I want to climb more, hike through sands and up mountains. I follow this blog and live vicariously through Aimee. A fellow Abbey subscriber and Southern Utah lover, her writing speaks to me. Calls me into the wild. She is living a life less ordinary in a most extraordinary way. Sometimes, today, reading of her adventures, seeing the photos of all these places I may never know, makes me melancholy.

Some days I miss the life I didn't choose.

YouTube - We No Speak Americano ft. Cleary & Harding

2010-10-01T08:11:00.000-06:00

YouTube - We No Speak Americano ft. Cleary & Harding: "- Sent using Google Toolbar"

One day I will be as cool as Nikki and figure out how to embed videos directly into my blog. But until then, turn up the volume, click the link, kick your chair out of the way and DANCE! Oh, then come back and watch this totally rad video. That's right, I said totally rad.

Music

2010-09-24T21:26:00.001-06:00

I don't really know why I keep a blog. As previously mentioned I am not actually comfortable with knowing that people read it. I was asked to blog professionally for the newspaper and found that I just couldn't do it. Too much pressure, too much exposure. But I write a lot and it needs to go somewhere. I have what I could term a diary, or a journal of sorts, but it isn't in a form that I can easily read back through it. And it's all full of secrets and truths and things I wouldn't share. This is public enough to keep me from wandering too deep but private enough that I am pretty much within my comfort zone of sharing. Anyone who knows me well knows I don't often get into girly feelers and whatnot. But when I do delve into that realm of myself it can get pretty messy. This is a nice balance for me.
I'm not sure what all that has to do with what I came here to post. An amazing song. Delta Spirit, Salt in the Wound
When I heard this it was as background music under a monologue and I briefly wondered if it was my man, Willy. A throaty voice with just enough twang to make me giddy over an hypnotically pleasing repetition of guitar strings being plucked with love and skill. Alas it is not The Legend of the South but instead a band I'd never even heard of before. Enjoy, Anonymous Readers and Jenni.

Therapy and Privacy and fear of the unknown

2010-09-16T14:51:00.000-06:00

I don't think anyone really noticed but I set my blog to "private" a few months ago. The visitor log was driving me a wee bit bonkers. Visits would be logged from all over the world, or even worse, from my own area, but I never knew who it was. I, being the over-thinking natural control-freak that I am, would wonder who was visiting, reading my errant and mundane thoughts. What did they read? How did they find me? And on it went. Until one particular visitor drove me over the edge of reason and I basically shut down my page.
Well, visitor log you are no more! I deleted the infernal thing and am now free to write whatever I want in blissful ignorance of all visitors! As far as I care to know, no one is reading my ramblings and I think I may like it that way. My words have always flowed more freely if I imagine an audience (anyone know the definition of a narcissist?) *but* as a confirmed sufferer of severe and sometimes debilitating stage fright I can't actually know that anyone is reading. Ah, what a conundrum. If I think only myself will read my writings I tend lose focus and not finish. But if I actually know someone will read my work then I can't manage to string together coherent thoughts.
So I am trying something in between. We'll see, or, um, at least I will, how it goes from here.

Desert Rat

2010-08-20T21:32:00.000-06:00

For many years I have had an abiding love for the desert. The smoothly stark landscape superimposed with jagged life and alien species can always make me pause for a moment of peace. There is something ancient, something primal in the desert. Instead of the cacophony of life one can touch in the mountains there is a delicate roaring of solitude. Every plant seems individual, special for its very existence and the lack of brotherhood in which it manages to thrive. And with this comes a sense of the extraordinary in every rock, tree, bush and animal. Colors never seem more vivid than when there are only 3 or so from which to choose and varying degrees of those.

Moab, Arches, Zion, Goblin, Bryce, these are places that visit me in my dreams but often seem unreachable through the fog of reality. Children are born, careers thrive and trips are delayed. I want my children to experience the magic of desert, the beauty of a sunrise flanked by hoodoos, to learn to follow cairns and stand behind a waterfall.

But until they are a little older, until I can show them some of the splendor of their world, I will try to experience it without them and write it down for them to read one day, if they wish.

RUN!

2010-07-16T09:26:00.000-06:00

"I didn't know rattlesnakes were so green." That was the main thought in my head after my encounter with an angry rattler. I was hiking up a creek with Kolter on my back. My husband had Killian on his back and we were trekking through icy water, up and over boulders, on trail, off trail drawing ever closer to a waterfall, or so the trail information stated.
After what seemed like hours of wet and rugged walking I finally decided to head higher, out of the water, and seek a drier trail. With my head down, watching a game trail grow a little fainter with each step, I heard a distinctive clackclackclack that I don't think I have ever heard before, and hope to never hear again. I looked up, already in a panic although still unsure why, and saw a large green triangular head perched atop a thick, coiled body just peaking out from underneath a rock. Sirens went off in my head and my only thought was, "RUN!"
I whirled around and then realized I had just exposed Kolter to the evil serpent. Of course rationally I knew he was too high off the ground for the snake to pose a threat to his body, but the screaming in my head just needed to get him out of there! I nearly threw myself at my husband and started pushing him down the incline we'd just climbed up. "Snake! Snake! Run!!!" I screamed and pushed and nearly shoved him down. He teetered off balance a bit, seemed unsure of what was happening but willing to run lest his panicked wife toss him and the three year old on his back into the creek. I didn't stop until we reached the creek, about 30 feet away. In my mind I rationalized that the snake wouldn't come near the creek and it's frigid waters. Although looking back I doubt he had followed us anyway, but at the time I was convinced he was in hot pursuit of my flip flop shod feet and nothing short of water would dissuade him from the death of me or my progeny.

Now I carry a snake bite kit.

Abbey

2010-07-12T19:54:00.002-06:00

Or so it seems at the moment, as my fire dies to a twist of smoke and a heap of rubies, and for a moment I think I've almost caught a falling star: there is no mystery; there is only paradox, the incontrovertible union of contradictory truths. A falling star which melts into vapor as I grasp it, which flows through my fingers like water, like smoke.

Abbey Thoughts

2010-07-05T18:06:00.005-06:00

“Strolling on, it seems to me that the strangeness and wonder of existence are emphasized here, in the desert, by the comparative sparsity of the flora and fauna: life not crowded upon life as in other places but scattered abroad in spareness and simplicity, with a generous gift of space for each herb and bush and tree, each stem of grass, so that the living organism stands out bold and brave and vivid against the lifeless sand and barren rock. The extreme clarity of the desert light is equaled by the extreme individuation of desert life-forms. Love flowers best in openness and freedom.”

Cruel Shoes

2010-07-05T18:04:00.000-06:00

Long and rambling details are my specialty!
It was impressive. Many years ago, when I was newly pregnant with my Meanie, I decided I would trek out to The City for one last multi-pitch hoorah before impending parenthood could engulf my every waking moment. After hours of hiking and trying unsuccessfully to match a rock in the vicinity with the picture in the guidebook, it started to snow and the trip was forsaken, to much sobbing on my part. That was nearly four years ago.
I committed to go back to do that climb on Friday. BUT, I was sabotaged! Instead I went to the bar Thursday night for some much-needed girl time and cried again. The climb is called Cruel Shoes but I think Cruel Intentions would be more apt. Every time I intend to do it I get cruelly thwarted.
My mom was in town for the week of the wee one's birthday and I took full advantage of a free full-time nanny. I finally left Saturday night and camped under a spectacularly full moon. The orb shone down on a small crackling campfire, a bottle of Scottish blended whiskey and myself. With no offspring to tend to I relaxed and let the melodies coming from my headphones and a few sips of whiskey lull me into a state of near hypnosis. I slept well in a warm tent and woke to hot coffee and a brisk morning. The sun rose quickly and bathed the nearby mountains in fulvous hues; tawny, orange, golden laid over blue and green hills in the distance. I started packing immediately and did not enjoy the beauty of the sunrise. There was climbing to be done!
A bit of driving over rough roads and previously unseen (by me) signs welcomed me to my happy place. City of Rocks National Reserve. We have missed one another. Two years is a very long time.
With the sun still rising, a future love of mine called Steinfell's Dome was a magnificent orange while his little brother, my favorite rock of all time, hid in his shadow. But I had plans. I could not be swayed by the lullaby of my favorite climb, the comfortable and beautiful Thumb. Oh, at nearly 600 feet from trail head to rappel anchors my greatest granite love is an imposing monolith of exposure, sand paper and sore calves disguised as a slabby lover. Beckoning with promises of illusory futures and epiphanies worth seeking this rock is a sweet partner with an embrace as cool and inviting as a bottomless swimming hole on an August Day. But no. I was here for torture, Cruel Shoes and I would meet today. A gorgeous white dome nestled in an outcropping of fellow crags, circumscribed by pinyons, junipers, a flowing creek and of course, a small trail right to the base.
Armed with correct trail information, plenty of quick draws and all necessary safety gear I started out. A crisp and wet morning left me to navigate a sometimes muddy, though quite unremarkable walk through a few cattle gates, cacti and sand.
With the sun now fully baking the white and grey granite and the watch not yet reading 8am I breached the protective layers of creek and trees. Stripe Rock and the planned route were in reach! Some discussion and a bit of referencing to the guidebook proved that the cairn was in the wrong place. I made a new one at the base of what I assume is Cruel Shoes.
A popular route, I expected some company but none showed. Near solitude. Perfect. I payed out the rope, weighed my harness down with as many draws as I own, checked webbing, ATCs and biners. All was in order! After nearly four years of this being on my tick list I took my first step up Stripe Rock.
Oh, the granite of The City is sublime. Nearly featureless in places, full jugs in others. All manners of rock invite you to place hands and feet on every inch. Kindly stone will hold you in nearly any position, hand holds and stepping places aren't necessary if there is the slightest bit of inward angle. Quite the dome, Stripe Rock isn't much of a slab, just enough to make the nearly blank wall accessible through the stickiness of that magical stone.
A bit run out at the bottom, unusual for a Kevin Pogue route, I was more than 20 feet above my belayer before the first bolt was clipped. Good start. I kept up, clipping, clipped, reach, smear, step, smear, clipping, clipped. The climbing was effortless. No puzzles to sort, few hand holds to grasp. Smearing. Tough on the rubber, taxing on the hands and murder on squished, unaccustomed toes. Cruel Shoes, indeed. Blissful mindlessness and one can wander inward as one climbs upward. My silent soundtrack set Jeff Buckley's plaintive "Hallelujah" to the melody of my twinkling draws. Appropriate for a Sunday morning excursion.
The largest and most inquisitive butterfly ever known sought me out. I throttled my scream of terror, held fast to nothing and managed to not fling myself from the wall in horror from the innocuous insect while she flitted ever closer, daring herself to land on the intruder. She eventually took pity on me and my irrational fear and flew away, in that odd, lopsided pattern they have. She really was spectacular. As big as my palm with saffron wings, dotted black. No camera but that mental picture will last a lifetime. I thank the universe she wasn't brave enough to touch me or I may have never recovered emotionally.
I continued up dragging rope and leaving draws. A nearly blank canvas, Stripe Rock gives no comfort at the belay stations. Clipped into a single anchor and resting in my harness was near murder. Cruel Shoes provides enough angle to slide your heels back into your shoes and make them chafe sensitive achilles tendons, few enough toe holds to bend those poor piggies back while smearing them against granite and just enough pitch forward to bend the ankles awkwardly. I had always wondered at the name.
Three pitches make up this route. At the top there is a single anchor but the guidebook says there are open shunts from which to rappel. Well what else is there to do but unclip from the belay station and continue up the 8 feet or so to the very top? I see no other choice. Ignoring strongly worded admonitions I unclipped my 'biner and went exploring, sans rope. Just a few more feet and I reached the pinnacle of Stripe Rock (see enclosed photo). A refreshing current of air caressed my warm skin as I soaked in the quiet. Not quiet, but the accord of nature as observed from 300 feet above rock base. Breezy precipice, call of peregrine falcons, occasional jingle of some gear and your own breath. I could stay there for hours. Peace.
But I am the only one of my climbing duo that enjoys the top. So down we decided to go. Ready for the rappel?
Oh yeah, you need two ropes for the rap. But I had no desire to carry an extra rope with me solely for the rappel so I had failed to mention this insignificant detail. I figured a belay down to the second pitch would suffice, as the way down is the same as the way up for this route. My plan was nixed and instead it was decided to rappel the rope length, hang a 'biner on a bolt, rappel from that, ditch the carabiner and search the next belay station and rappel from there. Seems overly complicated to me but who am I to argue when panic is so near at hand? We managed to do it in 2 pitches with a rather sketchy down climb of about 20 feet at the bottom.
Oddly enough I had a moment of frozen fear while waiting patiently for the rope. I clipped into a bolt near the anchor for pitch 2 and waited for the rappel to be reset closer to me. My unexpected anxiety came while I was clipped into a single bolt and rested into my harness which was tethered to the carabiner by a single bit of webbing. I replayed the conversation that I'd had on top of the rock regarding fear, safety, gear failure and was marveling at how none of that ever enters my head before, during or after a climb. Very bad idea. I suddenly looked down at this tiny piece of metal that someone, 20 years ago, had anchored into the rock. Rock that sometimes crumbles in my hand, rock that left pebbles digging into my soles when I took off my excruciatingly uncomfortable shoes. And clipped into that bit of ancient tin was a carabiner. Had it been dropped down a slick of basalt before? There were significant color changes apparent just from rubbing that particular bolt. I was putting a lot of weight into that thin piece of unknown metal. But worse than that was my webbing. No thicker than a typical piece of cardboard, only as wide as my index finger and it was stitched! By a machine worked by whom? And what kind of thread? Hadn't I once heard a story about a man's webbing that was slowly being severed by a jagged edge while he dangled on it? Another millimeter through and he would have dropped. I inspected my webbing. It seemed OK. But what about my harness?! I have had one fail before and was part of a recall.
On and on this went while I searched for foot holds, hand holds, anything to which I could cling since some major piece of gear was apt to give out at any moment and I would tumble to my death or worse. My feet were aching from the climb and the shoes to which I am no longer accustomed. But I had to keep my shoes on in order to provide a bit of purchase on the rock. My hands were rubbed nearly raw in places but I couldn't take them off the wall lest my harness suddenly disintegrated. And I kept looking down. Imagining the awful fall that would end painfully on that thin, triangular rock down there. The same rock that I would use to shimmy my way down to the ground in just a few moments. Is this what it is like for people who fear heights? This panic stricken numbness where every thought of every imaginable failure permeates your being and renders you helpless? This is awful!
But no. I am Katy. I am not scared of heights. I don't ponder the unquantifiable dangers. I just climb, jump, glide, speak, swim, dive all without thinking through most consequences. I like to do stuff just to see what happens. Irrational fear will not enter my climbing experience.
I decided to follow my mantra, what will be, will be. If some piece of gear suddenly failed and I tumbled to my death at The City then such is life. Such is death, too, I suppose. It could be no worse than dying at a nursing home at 86. And so I turned the panic off. Hysteria started expeditiously and just as swiftly it was gone. In its place a sense of the same accord that is usually reserved for the top of a hill. Where there is sometimes an unanimity with nature, in its stead there is now a fraction of understanding of life's cycle, a sense of peace with my maker and an acceptance of the unmaker that I will one day meet. I have no wish to end here, I am nowhere near done savoring the physical world for there is still much to climb, I have yet to jump or glide or swim or dive my fill. And yet somehow, knowing that I am on a journey to know this life, well then, I am further ahead than I was yesterday.
And what will be, will be.

2010-07-01T23:58:00.002-06:00

I could write enough to make
this alright
The sun would set
and the credits would roll
and our kiss would last eternal.
Kids would never grow
when our story was told
Ever after
Known from the start
Because the crystal ball
says we can have it all
If only
we manage to find the strength.

2010-06-14T12:04:00.003-06:00

Just once I wish I could play puppet master. Make everyone's actions correspond to my own selfish desires. Do what I want with little regard for the feelings of others and have no guilt, no repercussions, emotional or otherwise. I wish I could force contact and happiness and make the world right according to Katy.

perfection

2010-06-12T22:52:00.007-06:00

Given enough solo time on a candlelit covered deck, during a rain storm, with a glass of whiskey and Girlyman on the surround sound, I could solve all the world's problems. Or at least question myself into a state of blissful befuddlement.
Splendid cacophony.
The flame flickers against beige siding as my gentleman caller promises love everlasting through plastic speakers. A continuous peltpeltpelt reassures me that no matter how things change... they will always stay the same. I have oft felt that we are where we aspire to be. No matter if I am a SCUBA diving, world traveling, gear plugging, canyoneering incendiary provocateur in my own mind, I cannot escape the reality of the banality of my suburban life.

Crystal balls don't exist. We must forge our own path and know that it is what it is. The paths we are currently constructing form the road that we will follow. Is every decision a piece of the pattern that will design our lives? Does it take extreme selfishness or extreme courage to lead a life less ordinary? Is it really selfishness to seek your own destiny? To asseverate with assurance, "this is what I want." and then contrive to have it? Let the others sort out the details.

I read once some trifling maxim "Never regret anything, because at one time it was exactly what you wanted." I had always thought it a facile way to view a complex life.

shiver me timbers.

2010-06-10T23:05:00.002-06:00

done done done done!!!!!!
How is my picker SO bad?! I thought I'd learned. I thought I knew how to scrutinize people and look out for the ones that weren't nice. How hard is it to be nice!? I don't think that I am sought out by people looking to take advantage of someone. Instead I seem to be this clandestine doormat. Normal, average people come into contact with me and initially see a strong person, no one sees me as a victim. But somehow the layers get peeled back and my true self is revealed. These seemingly nice people just can't help themselves. A woman that appeared strong, fortified and indestructibly cheerful has now revealed herself as a weak, defenseless and eternally seeking praise sort of pusillanimous individual. And what is a normal person to do? Why then, s/he seeks to ruin said pillar of strength. Tear down any resolve, expose every weakness, exploit every fault to make sure that the pillar then knows that she is nothing. She is a crappy, frail, supine individual made into a malleable creature just seeking your condemnation.
Bring it on, World. I can take it all.

Done.

2010-06-09T16:06:00.003-06:00

When I think of how to describe myself one of the adjectives that comes to mind is giving. I enjoy making people happy whether it be with a photo session to capture a once in a lifetime moment or a favorite meal cooked with love. My acts of service are gifts that are given with love. This means that I will drop everything to celebrate a friend's birthday or cancel a ski lesson to attend a baby shower or find a special purse for a loved one while on vacation. If someone needs maternity clothes I will raid my basement stash and pass everything on with love, whether I have future plans for them or not.
And time and time and time again this ends up biting me right in my giant ass. The maternity clothes don't get returned when they're needed, the mother-to-be at the baby shower acts as if I'm not in attendance, the dinner made with specialty store ingredients is shoveled in as if it were from a box and not a word of thanks is uttered.
When I strive to make my friends feel important to me it is not so that it will one day be reciprocated. But is it really too much to ask that once in awhile it is?!? Is it too much to ask a friend of over 10 years, someone that I've known longer than my husband to be late to a single kid's soccer game to celebrate my own baby shower? Or a friend that I consider an actual sister from another mister to not plan her own birthday party during my son's first birthday party? I don't want to get petty and lay out all the multitudinous chores, labors of love that I have performed for this dear friend but suffice it to say that, as usual, the give and take is pretty much give and receive.
I am finding this more and more to be a pattern in my life. Why is that? Friends that I have loved for years are revealing themselves to be lacking in ways I have never seen before. Am I really such a pushover? Because along with giving I would include strong. Gullible would make its way into a top ten list of adjectives, but I had always passed that one off as a funny trait of mine. I am now finding it to not be quite so funny. I have gulled myself into trusting the untrustworthy, befriending the unworthy and giving to the takers.

Old loves made new again

2010-06-09T09:19:00.002-06:00

An old friend has recently returned to my life. He and I were never close but ours was an amiable enough acquaintance. Through the magic of social networking we are forging a new and unexpected friendship. We have been sharing music and my world is expanding. I have always felt music fervidly. As a confirmed, though somewhat clandestine, poetry fan a song's lyrics can pierce me. As for the harmonies, chords and keys I have my preferences. My girly guys with their guitars are my favorite but my range of music loves are illimitable.
Through sharing I have found new girly guys, heard new poems and rediscovered past loves. The voice of Evanescence has always captivated me. Her mournful laments can cause me to take a deep breath before life can continue. While My Immortal has struck me with the beauty of her plaintive cries, I have never pondered much the lyrics, or their intendment. Having been given this to contemplate I heard it with fresh ears. And the poetry that lies at the soul of this song... well it pierces me.
As a teenage girl finding her life mapped through the words of Brandon Flowers I find my very own meaning in this song. How much time can pass before the wounds do heal? Some inflictions are too deep, the scar still brings pain when one stops to gaze upon it. If you are the one holding the memory dear, how can the person leave? And a lifetime spent with the memory of a phantom does not disappear with mere years of silence. Regardless of the eidolon stemming from a childhood dream, the pain does not disperse simply because there is no reality.

How does she know?

2010-06-06T21:05:00.001-06:00

Brandi Carlile. She's a precog.

Getting Out

2010-05-27T09:42:00.006-06:00

Spring fever has hit. And with what force! It may be that the Summer on 2009 was the "summer that never warmed". After all, my son celebrated his 4th of July birthday playing in the snow. Remember that, Pocatello? Streets turned into oil slicked pools and were blocked off by fire trucks. Note the utter befuddlement displayed across this newly-turned 2 year old boy's face as he holds snow. On Independence Day. Shouldn't we have been playing in a lake instead of huddled inside watching massive amounts of snow/hail accumulate on the deck outside?
Or it could be that I had a baby last summer. Pregnancy and newborns tend to take a bit of the carefree joviality that can be often felt through the warmer months. My little guy was pretty travel-friendly and we did swim and play a lot. But being weighed down by strollers, nursing covers and pack&plays will detract from the natural buoyancy of sunny days.
Or perhaps I am over-thinking this. I have been recently accused of that sort of thing. I may be thinking through every nuance of "why" for a simple case of Spring Fever. And what cures Spring Fever better than Outside Playtime! So let's explore what to do. If you don't plan to join the droves with tent and BBQ in the trunk of your sedan to a nearby camp site then at least plan a walk, a hike, a pleasant bike ride. I am exploring options for some day hikes. My family and I went on a pleasantly strenuous hike around the base of Scout Mountain a few weeks ago and it definitely ranked high on my list of recent enjoyments. All we needed were some eco-friendly water bottles, two baby back packs, a camera and some dried fruit and we were off.
We drove as far up the road to Scoat as Forest Service allowed. The main gate is still closed, so we parked and started down the steep embankment. We were temporarily foiled by the large creek but some bush-whacking and a sense of the spirit of adventure got us past the current and onto a trip up the hills. We meandered with kids on our backs. We saw bugs and trees and flowers. My now nearly three year old overcame some of his natural trepidation to all things new and my nearly one year old slept, laughed, ate and had a very good time on his dad's back for a few hours. It didn't take any planning and we were only gone for a few hours, but we never saw another soul and that spring mountain air was sweet.

We may do the oft hiked "Gibson Jack Loop" this weekend, weather and time permitting. With most outdoor type people out having real adventures, I assume a serene walk will be possible. But if we run into you, stop and say "hi!". Tell me you read my blog and make my day! And be sure to post your own travels on here.
If you'd like more information on local hikes check the following links.

Gibson Jack Loop
This site requires a fee for full usage but plenty of information is available on the free portion. If you need more information than is given, just search. Plenty of kindly folks blog their adventures and will include trailhead info and more.
Details of local trails can be found here.

This is what pain sounds like

2010-05-16T09:46:00.003-06:00

Occasionally words fail to impart the intended meaning. Sometimes the words come too expediently and with such force that the intendment cannot be deciphered. And sometimes the words must be stolen from another, set to music and be sung by an earthbound divinity in order to justly convey the correct message.
I forgot how much I love this song. It was set to repeat on my mp3 player many moons ago. I replayed this until the iteration finally dulled the agony of a lost life. Having lost that music machine to a particularly hard concrete floor I lost a lot of music that I'd loved dearly. This song being among them.
Recent events have renewed my passion for music and I have been trying to fill my newer music machine. I just happened across this aging gem. Listening to it now, in the light of a new day, the meaning still holds true but new layers have been added. It does not galvanize fresh pain, as I thought it might. Instead it provides a new perception of past events.
Because we've had our doubts. But now we're fine.

I love this song. And this live version is so raw and beautiful. It's now set to repeat.

Ignore the images, it's the song that makes my heart skip beats

2010-05-06T18:42:00.007-06:00

The Shape You Found Me In

My newest obsession, Girlyman.
This voice, the guitar and the lyrics all combine to stir and soften my defenses. The chords blend together in a honeyed accumulation of all that is right with music. This song makes me want to write cryptic poetry and explore every nuance of the libretto that is The Shape You Found Me In.
On first listen this song is sagaciously simple. An uncomplicated love song set to stylish guitar chords and sang by a seraph. However, like a luxurious Scotch the stratum reveal themselves to be subtlety hidden and will emerge over several samplings.
I want to dismantle every lyric. I want to explicate every analogy and decipher every line. But why would I plunder from the enigmatic puzzle? Any interpretation that I could provide would serve no purpose save to insinuate my mundane opinions into a piece of art to which I have no claim. Instead just listen. Then hear. Appreciate.
And the next poem on my blog that you don't want to understand will probably fit this shape.

2010-05-06T14:43:00.002-06:00

Happy Mother's Day!
Ok, so the grocery store flower pot hasn't arrived via a beaming child yet but you've thought about what your day will be like, right? Perhaps you'll sleep in and awake to a warm breakfast in bed, then a leisurely stroll through a local trail. You'll get to hear the birds sing their songs of happiness and feel the dappled sunshine on your back...
Wait! Reality. If your mother's day is anything like the 2 that I've already experienced you know that this fantasy will stay just that this Sunday, a fantasy. A dream to be lived out when you get a housekeeper, a nanny, a personal chef, a weather control machine... oh yeah, and a separate house for yourself so you can sleep in. Or just sleep.
As for my third Mother's Day, I expect it will be quite indistinguishable from any other Sunday. I'll wake up at 7:00 am to a very happy and very hungry young man. Shortly after the bottle has been gulped down but before the Cheerios have been consumed then the coffee that I made myself will be done brewing. I'll pour a warm mug and then head up the stairs to get the other young man in my life. This one won't be quite as happy and a battle over chocolate soy milk versus vanilla soy milk will ensue. Someone will win and Hershey's stock will go up just a bit. The day will continue ad nauseam. Naps will commence, arguments and temper tantrums will ensue. I will make an acceptably edible dinner and probably fold some laundry. And all day it will be Mother's Day.
What is this supposed to mean to me? To my husband? It means nothing to my children as they're too young to begin to grasp a concept as foreign as every single day not being solely dedicated to their pleasure and enjoyment.
Am I meant to relish my children all day? I do delight in my children every day but I certainly don't gush over them constantly. In fact sometimes I outright ignore them. I have never made a secret of the tribulations that I have experienced with my transition to motherhood. My first son, Killian, was born almost 3 years ago and he came home a colicky and finicky little infant. He cried when I would turn on the bedroom light, when I set him down, when I bathed him, when he breathed... And I do hear that he'll outgrow colic soon...
Almost one year ago my second son, Kolter, was born. A fatter or happier baby there has never been. He is adored by all but the time consumption of two very young children is a daily challenge for someone as selfish as me. The lack of sleep alone could, and sometimes does, drive me to tears. Having two kids means never again having a quiet house. For when one is asleep the other is certain to be awake. As a woman who thoroughly enjoys both writing and reading these two pursuits have largely gone the way of skinny jeans for me. That is, to the thrift store to be enjoyed by someone with a life different than mine.
Someone that doesn't have to wake up at 7 am every day of the week and immediately start meeting the needs of others. Someone that doesn't discuss potty-training methods over chicken nuggets at the playland. Someone that isn't screamed at 86 times before 9 in the morning. Someone that has showered alone and had time to paint her nails. Someone that didn't stumble down the hallway to soothe a fevered babe the night before. Someone that doesn't know the words to Where the Wild Things Are by heart.
Someone else. Someone that doesn't have a beatific smile bestowed on her by a shaggy haired blond cherub just for walking into his room. Someone that doesn't get to snuggle a warm and sleeping baby and feel the love emanating from within her soul at the sound of those sweet little breaths. Someone that has never juggled two young kids, one on each hip, and watched as they laughed at each other for no reason at all and thought, "this completes me."
Someone with a kitchen table absent of a vase filled with grocery store carnations and a football balloon that the boys picked out and their dad just couldn't bear to say no.
And perhaps that's what Mother's Day is meant to be. Just a day to look around at your family and know that you made them and they are yours. Whether or not you have a great husband like I am blessed with, whether you have a child in the making, one already out of the house or somewhere in between, they are yours. You have made your family what it is. And you don't need a breakfast in bed or a languid pedicure to appreciate the life that you have made, the woman that you are, the mom that you strive to be. Because your gifts are already with you. They're probably pulling at your hair and flinging jam in the kitchen as you read this. But soon, one of them will come in with sticky fingers and only one sock on and this amazing person will want a cuddle for no reason at all. And that beats out a novel in the tub any day, doesn't it?
Happy Mother's Day.

Mmmmmmmmmmmassacre Rocks

2010-04-18T22:18:00.000-06:00

Oh. My. Gawd.
My hands hurt. My thumb really hurts. My thighs ache and my feet are sore. And I am complete right now.
I hiked and carried an extremely fat and happy little giggler through sands that could weigh a person down. But they lifted me up! Every footfall was a piece of peace. Every burn in my body reminded me of the breath flowing through me. The monolith of slick basalt burgeoned in front of me, flourishing ahead with every tread of my toes. I laughed with my sweet nieces and basked in the rays of El Sol. The shade of a large Juniper has rarely been so sweet, like running through the sprinkler as a lass. A gentle breeze lifted my locks and nestled my irriguous flesh. The felicity of our spirits couldn't be dampened by the moodiness of the fairer sex in the face of slightly inhospitable terrain and less than ideal geographic locales.
Eventually, and after much dissension, we started toward Eagle Wall. That masterpiece of stone loomed ahead and beckoned one and all. Or maybe just me. That luscious crag sang like my personal siren and I heeded the call.
Once the approach was complete, many days of sand and sun later, two new friends waited to greet. Two harnesses full of jingleys and smiles across their visages was a salutation to warm a gal's heart. Jake and Landon. They have more brawn than brains but their gear left me salivating. I struck up a conversation and their pleasing dispositions just added to the charm of their musical rack of gear. We danced the dance of climbers at the rock,
"You ever been here before?"
"Nah, first time. You?"
"Not without a local!"
"What do you climb?"
"Do you plug gear?"
Where are you from?"
"Been to The City yet?"
"Gotta get the book!"
and it goes on.
We ended up sharing ropes and phone numbers. I look forward to spending days with them. And showing them how to best abuse their shiny gear, as they have nary a clue. 'Tis rare that I find someone with nuts on their harness that knows less than me about how to fare on a crag. I hope we learn together. These two Sweeties have just started their journey on the slab and I am anticipative of a reciprocation of learned knowledge.
Since the arduousness of Eagle was well beyond the capabilities at hand yours truly decided to take another hike in search of anchors from which to top rope. Left or Right? Right it is. Hubby and I started off with ropes, slings, harnesses... that's all we need, right? Rocks come from somewhere and if you hike along the base long enough you'll eventually find their starting point. But why wait?! See, that staircase right there? It looks built for a limber girl in sandals!
Oh the joy of scrambling. Candied hindrances melt into puzzles of the flesh and a passion is renewed. How can I forget that there is so much more to climbing than...climbing? There is hiking, plowing, reading, guessing, estimating, dragging, carrying, discovering! A mere climb at the archetypal roadside crag is nothing, it is a speck of that infernal sand down there, compared to this. CLIMBING. Seeking. Yes, seeking.
Ignoring the admonitions of safety that floated behind me, I instead pitch myself headlong into the elation of the scramble. Tearing off dried moss and begging my legs to bear my inexcusable weight I made it to a mesa of wonder. I brought my Ghost with me and inwardly sang in the breeze. A golden eagle soared just past, wondering at the loss of his solitude. I apologized for the intrusion. The flat landscape belied the spectacle of basalt just below. What a feeling! On a plain with visions of wagons of the past and a view of the treacherous Snake River below. Like a secret that so few know, just down there, just over that ledge, lies an enigmatic beauty. A marvel to be relished, that rock will not give up secrets to simply anyone.
A cool and breezy walk to the precipice allowed enough time to cool from the heat of the hike. A quick holler to check the position of the grounded and it's time to search out an anchor. With much back and forth from the peanut gallery a suitable anchor was located. Another round of safety admonitions and a quick check of gear (CRAP! Forgot the belay devices! *Smack self on forehead*.) a compromise between safe and seeking was reached.
The sketchiest top rope endeavor ever known was set-up and 80 feet of blue rope dangled down either side of those rusted chains. Exhilarating. A kindly niece sends up a belay device and one of the most stimulating open air rappels I have ever experienced ensues. How could I have forgotten what pure fun it can be to bounce off a wall from 70 feet up, on nothing more than a 10mm piece of twine? While not usually my most memorable portion of a trip, this rappel was nothing short of wondrous. Was it the the solitude? The sheer brazenness of the highly discouraged trip down the wire? Or was it the absolute freedom of being in complete control of my destiny in that moment?
I'll never know. But for some reason that rappel moved me. More than the climbing, more than the hiking, more than the sands. Flinging my body from arete to arete was more than freeing, it was... cathartic.

Jedi!

2010-04-03T17:18:00.002-06:00

I feel like there is an energy coursing through me lately! I have been creating again. I see photos everywhere I look and I have relearned to see beauty in the every day. I want to climb again. I really, really want to climb. Now. I want to climb out my stresses and climb to revel in my joy.
My meanie has been in a good place after a very, very long while of sickness and screaming. His twos are winding down into a charming three. He has a natural kind of thoughtfulness that he did not get from me but I appreciate it so much. I am learning empathy from a toddler. I know that the end of my child-bearing days are over and there is an absolute peace in that momentous decision. A freeing piece of knowledge that life can only get better. My sweetie just keeps getting fatter and sweeter. Teething is hard on him and he is quite addicted to me but again, knowing that my baby days are numbered allows for a kind of freedom to really enjoy it, not just endure it.
And my writing! I have been writing like a prisoner with nothing but a pen and tablet. I have been emailing and blogging and writing poetry again. I have so much inside of me lately that I must get it out. It doesn't necessarily need to go anywhere out into the cosmos, I just put it on my blog so that it is somewhere. I know no one save my closest internet-friends read this but even they don't need to. As always I have an audience in mind but that intended audience will never see my words. I don't know that I could write so freely if I thought anyone would actually look. I know you will, Stacy and Nikki, but the amazing thing about you is that you never judge and you have loved me through some of the worst times of my life. How much worse can it get in a blog?
So the Jedi that I know and love has returned! I am Katy again. I am not sure what that means, as I only have the faintest bit of knowledge gleaned from my husband and brother-in-law about The Force and whatnot, but I do know that outside forces have returned to enthuse me with a vigor of life and allow me to turn the draining parts into challenges to solve!

Oh.

2010-04-02T13:06:00.002-06:00

How can two tiny little letters foretell the carnage waiting ahead? Oh. It is so simple it can bring one to tears. It can dash hopes and renew old fears. It reminds the recipient that nothing will ever count toward the category of appreciation, doesn't it? It conveys disappointment tinged with anger. It is a catalyst resulting in hurt feelings. Oh. can tell a story unto itself. A story with more words than one cares to say aloud so one just relies on two simple letters. But the story is told and the listener can dissect the true meaning. Nothing less than perfection. Tolerate no mistakes. I would have done it differently and better than you ever could. A word of advise, choose your Oh.s carefully, please.

It's been awhile.

2010-04-01T21:43:00.004-06:00

I thank you for Scotch and love and
Once
Falling slowly into bliss
Finding home and making a wish.
Time that stood still just flew like
Vapor
within a concrete mist.
An endless night to have and
To hold.
With patience and time
Poetic violation
Comes forth unseen but heard.
And in the end all is Right
and the list goes on.

Warmth

2009-12-23T09:27:00.003-07:00

I reached for a hanger in my son's closet this morning and my eyes went to an as yet unworn red and gray short romper. As the wind howled outside the paned glass I stared at this summer outfit and had the ominous feeling that it would never again be warm enough to put my child in something with so little material. The sky above my house is covered in a blanket of frozen steel and hard pellets of crushed ice swirl through the air. I kissed my husband and son good-bye this morning on their way to the store. I couldn't even reach their cheeks through several layers of fabricated warmth designed to protect tiny ears and sensitive faces from the harshness of our Idaho winter. Bygone are the days of waking up and leaving the house with hair still saturated from a steamy shower. Today it would freeze in a moment outside.
Where has the sun gone? Adieu to nights in the grass drinking wine with the neighbor while our wee ones run amuck in golden sunsets. Farewell to midnight walks through sun-baked suburban streets, feeling the tangible remains of light radiate through your soles. Goodbye, my friend, my sun, my savior, my love. Sleep well. Return soon. I will miss you.

Catching Up

2009-12-09T13:52:00.000-07:00

Kolter Gauge Burnside came into my life on June 20th, 2009. He is the sweetest little person. He smiles all the time at everyone, he loves his big brother whether he's bouncing on the bed or reading a story. He can now roll-over but only from back to tummy, from there he's stuck.
Killian is completely potty trained! He wears big boy undies all the time. He is now severely allergic to peanuts, but his milk and egg allergies have decreased significantly. He knows all of his letters by sight and keeps me laughing and internally screaming almost every minute. Today I said, "Oh wow! You're picking up your cars? Thank you, that makes me SO happy." And he replied, "It makes me so sad."
Kelly has almost finished up a very big and nearly impossible project at work. He has a new boss who keeps him on his toes but he is excited for new opportunities in the year to come.
I got a new computer so I may actually be online again. I am really enjoying playing with different photography and find my kids make great subjects. You can check out my photo blog. I hope to have more pictures up soon. I would love to start doing small sessions and am in the process of acquiring additional backgrounds. I continue my book club, although finding time for books is becoming increasingly harder. Unfortunately rock climbing and hiking and snow shoeing and well, everything not to do with kids, has also become quite a bit more difficult to accomplish. I am trying to mentally grasp that this period in my life is temporary and one day very soon my world will not revolve solely around my children. One day I will miss having to pack a diaper bag and cuddle babies. But I bet I can find other ways to amuse myself when that time comes.
That's where we are now, as a family. I'll try to keep my blogs better ypdated from now on, but no promises.

Jedi

2009-05-31T16:25:00.003-06:00

I seem to do better when surrounded by certain outside forces. Unsurprisingly, I seem to do worse when surrounded by certain outside forces. Not good as in carry around a light saber resisting the revolution or bad like hurting defenseless kittens kind of bad but as versions of myself. And I suppose it could all be in the eye of the beholder, this good or bad dilemma. There are some people that probably prefer the quiet and indifferent version that I consider bad. After all, I know she's easier to be around than the questioning and assured version.
But I find that there are certain things, people, places that electrify me. And contrarily there are others that just drain me. Because right now I can't seek more electrifying sources, I need to ponder the draining qualities and figure out a way to change it. A magnet can change it's poles, right? Please don't mock if I'm wrong. I didn't pay much attention in 7th grade science and I don't have to time to go checking Wiki.
So the big question is how? Must I be the one to change what electrifies me? Or is there a way to turn those energy-suckers into challenges that will spur me into action and put the spark back?

My fears made funny (and real!)

2009-05-15T12:58:00.002-06:00

My Second-Favorite Son: A Dad's Tale of Parental Favoritism

Thursday, May 14, 2009 1:14 PM

By Newsweek

By Eric Weinberg

My son Benjamin is three and a half. He’s an unbelievably sweet, smart, Spider-Man-obsessed kid who wakes up smiling, and goes to bed asking me to lie next to him in the dark and tell him the story I made up about a monster who uses lemons and oranges and cherries and grapes and blueberries to make giant rainbows in the sky. (And sure, it occurs to me now that I’ve been sending my son to bed every night dreaming of an artistically-inclined gay super-icon, but there’s really no way to put that genie back in the bottle.) We’re not religious people, but I think I can speak for my wife, Hilary, and I when I say we feel really blessed to have Ben. So, that said, I want to talk about my second favorite son, Julian.

Just so you understand, I say “second favorite” only because I don’t love Julian as much as I love Ben. And I say “son” because he’s not a daughter, which is what I really, really wanted. Badly. And I say “my” because I stubbornly choose to believe I helped produce him, despite the fact that he’s almost a year and a half old and resembles me about as much as a slice of cheesecake resembles Jeff Goldblum.

When I say I don’t love Julian as much as Benjamin, I’m really saying I don’t know him as well: He’s younger, his personality isn’t as well formed, we haven’t spent nearly as much time together. Plus, his head looks like a lightbulb. To be fair, it’s not like the day Ben was born I loved him as much as I do now; I mean, I’m not crazy, or his mom. Point being, if I’m throwing a party, Ben gets an invite before Julian.

But back to how Julian’s the wrong sex and probably not mine: See, whenever I thought about having children, I imagined a boy and a girl; it just seemed normal to me. For instance, I’m a boy and my sister’s a girl. And, sure enough, Hilary’s second pregnancy felt different than her first one. Hil and I had this great idea—well, copied this great idea—of having our doctor reveal the sex of our baby to us on a card, which we’d open over a romantic dinner. (Our romantic dinner was eaten at home, half-standing at the kitchen island while we went through junk mail, but I’m not saying that’s mandatory.) Anyway, we opened the card to make it official, and it said, “Congratulations—it’s a boy!” And, just like that, all the air left my body. Not in a farty way; I mean I was devastated. We had a boy, we had a great boy, what did we need another boy for?

Now, I’m no psychiatrist, but I am Jewish. So I’ve obsessed over this long enough to know that my desire for a baby girl probably goes back to me feeling a tad screwed-over by my older sister while I was growing up. (For the record, we’re friends now, which I hope is encouraging to eight-year-olds everywhere.) As a kid it made me wish I had a younger sister, who I’d be far nicer to, and as an adult it made me wish I could have a little girl of my own to cuddle, to counsel, to connect with in the way that other fathers – my best friends, in fact – do with their daughters, just as mothers do with their sons. See, people always talk about that special relationship between a father and daughter; what they hardly ever talk about is that special relationship between a father and someone else’s daughter. And, sure, I get that it’s no one’s idea of a classic May-December romance, but there’s a certain bond you have with someone whom you’ve known since she pronounced that word “Dethember.”

Of course, when Hil was actually giving birth to Julian, all I was thinking was, Just be healthy. And maybe have a vagina. Not in addition to a penis, because… anyway, just be healthy. And he was healthy. He looked nothing like me, but I blew right past that until I had to tell the doctor my blood type, and he said, “Well, either you’re wrong, or he’s not your child.” I blew past that, too, and as the weeks and months went by, I kept waiting for something, anything, familiar to show up in my second son. Instead, he just kept looking like some odd combination of my wife and… someone too ugly for her to have slept with. “Maybe you should get a blood test,” Hilary would joke with me. And we laugh, awkwardly. Friends trotted out something like, “He really has your, um… expressions,” because it’s a nice thing to say, like, “I love your house,” or “I didn’t realize you were that old.” Yet, oddly, over time, I’ve grown accustomed to Julian’s face. Sometime last year I said, “Hey, handsome,” and then he and I both did a double take when we realized I wasn’t being sarcastic.

So, the upshot is, I have two boys. The Weinberg boys. As in, “Mom, can the Weinberg boys come over?” Or, “No arrests have been made, but local police are questioning the Weinberg boys about their parents’ disappearance.” And the thing is, Julian is such a boy: He grabs fistfuls of hair out of your scalp, he gashes himself over his eye and doesn’t blink. And whereas when you pull Ben’s hair back he almost has a pretty girl’s face, when you pull Julian’s hair back he just kind of looks like… well, suppose Andy Richter had chemo.

The truth is, love comes in all sorts of ways. With Julian, well… I don’t want to brag, but he pursued me. Big time. He made me fall completely in love with him. And it’s not just a crush, it’s the real thing, I can feel it.

Excerpted from "The Other One," by Eric Weinberg. Weinberg is just one of several very funny - and honest - writers sharing true stores and parental confessions in "Afterbirth: Stories You Won’t Read in Parenting Magazines," edited by Dani Klein Modisett (St. Martin’s Press, 2009).

Puzzling Pieces

2009-05-15T08:19:00.003-06:00

What am I missing?
I have had this sense of nostalgia lately that I just can't pinpoint. This morning I saw a picture of a ski hill and I was suddenly swept into the pine trees with soft flakes swirling around as I watched a snow-covered valley become blanketed in thick clouds below me. And then I lamented the loss of the ski hill when I looked around at my living room.
I am missing my last house and the foothill that was behind it. If I watched very closely I could often see deer on that hill. It was such a peaceful place this time of year. I would watch the trees waking up every day, adding more and more greenery to their tan limbs. The bird's songs would get louder as the sun came up and I would bury my head in my pillow, praying for 15 more minutes of sleep... There were few things that I liked about that house, but having coffee on the deck in the Spring was probably top of my list.
If I do find the missing piece, will it fit into my current reality?

Previously Unposted Circa 8/2009

2009-05-14T22:18:00.001-06:00

A barefoot climber? While rock climbing this weekend I was taking a shade break and chasing my Meanie around when 2 guys dropped a rope and were chatting at the bottom of a small climb. They'd dropped the rope from above and it seemed they hadn't known what level climb they were about to attempt. It was a difficult one they'd chosen with some small feet and a long reach or two but it isn't an impossible climb. The first one to climb was rather loudly proclaiming the difficulty and exclaiming how it was much steeper than he'd thought. The climber was so convincing in regards to the impossible feat that he was about to attempt that his belayer asked if they should set up something else. Barefoot Dude then started expostulating to Belay Monkey that he could try it because he'd been training a lot. And apparently with his Ipod turned up too loudly because he couldn't seem to hear himself if he spoke in a normal volume.
Climber Dude starts stretching out and again resumes his full-volume monologue about the odyssey of awesomeness that he was about to complete. At this point I hadn't paid much attention as I was chasing my bored and determined toddler around but they were providing a semblance of distraction as I was waiting for my next turn on the wall. So Climber Dude ropes up and starts to climb the route. After a moment or two I peek over and notice that homeboy has started the climb with no shoes!
Wow, I am impressed. The bottom of the climb isn't a particularly easy start and he seems to have cleared it with ease. Again he starts talking about how hard this is and how he can't believe that he can do it. Well if I wasn't impressed before I am now. To climb a hard climb barefoot is one thing but to provide a running commentary on your accomplishment while doing so is quite another.

Guest Post

2009-05-08T08:30:00.001-06:00

http://www.newsweek.com/id/196023?from=rss

Happy Mother's Day!

Oh, I know the burnt toast and dandelion bouquet won't come till May 10. But lately, every day is Mother's Day, thanks to our relentless focus on moms (and to a lesser extent dads) and the way they parent.

Parenting has become a spectator sport. We set the bar extremely high for what is "good" parenting and start judging the moment we hear someone did something that could be considered one drop dangerous.

I should know. I'm the mom who let her 9-year-old ride the New York City subway by himself. Just about a year ago I made national news when my husband andI decided to take our son someplace he hadn't been before and let him try to find his way home by himself on public transportation. (By day, not very far from home, with money and a map and quarters for a phone call.) The very thing he'd been begging us to let him do for months. He made it home fine, btw, but millions of folks weighed in, often critically, on my parenting.

Now I feel a little like Miss America, passing my "Bad Mom" crown and scepter to Madlyn Primoff, the Scarsdale, N.Y., lawyer who was arrested for endangering the welfare of a child a few weeks back after she left her two daughters, ages 10 and 12, in a shopping area of a New York City suburb because they were bickering in the car. (Both the girls got home safely, though one did wind up waiting for her parents at the local police station.)
Primoff can have the crown, but I'm keeping the scepter for self-defense. All moms could use one. It was only when complete strangers started saying I was lazy/crazy/cable-TV-fodder-in-the-making that I began to understand that a lot of us Americans are raising our kids in an utter state of panic. We are convinced that every day, in every way, our children are in terrible peril. We are obsessed with other parents' child-rearing decisions—and our own—because we're being told each one is of life and death importance.

And it's not just about stranger danger. It begins even before birth, with the pregnancy diet books (a whole new genre!) telling us "each bite" is going to determine if our kids are golden—or duds. Same goes for every other parenting decision we make: are you having natural childbirth? If not, you're traumatizing the baby! Are you breastfeeding? If not, your kid's going to be a dummy! With allergies! And extra-chunky thighs! Are you feeding your kid nonorganic baby food? Did you wait too long to sign her up for music lessons? Shouldn't you get that toy that teaches multiplication? But the biggest decision of all, of course, is: can I ever leave my kids to their own devices? To climb a tree or walk to school? And lately the answer is: no. Not until their hair goes gray and they start liking bran flakes.The prevailing belief is that even one unscheduled, unsupervised childhood episode (like the car-ejection) is dangerous to the point of criminal. That kids could never possibly buck up and ask someone for help, or figure out how to use a public phone, or ask directions to the police station.

But that Scarsdale lawyer's kids were not preschoolers. At age 10 or 12 in other eras, those kids would have been apprenticed already. Or working as servants in someone else's house, or picking coffee beans. Actually, in other countries, some children that age are still picking coffee beans. Why do we assume that today's American kids are the dumbest, most vulnerable, least competent generation ever—and that we are doing them a favor by treating them almost as if they are disabled? ("Let me open the car door for you, honey!") Because that's what our culture tells us to do. It tells us that kids need extra classes, extra padding and extra supervision just to make it through another day. It tells us we should always plan for the worst-case scenario. And it warns us that they are in physical danger from a crime-crazed world, even though, nationally, our crime rate is back to what it was in 1970. Yes, if you grew up in the '70s or '80s, times are safer now than when you were a kid. That's according to U.S. Bureau of Justice statistics. We Americans have a very hard time believing that good news because good news is not what we are soaking in. Mostly we are soaking in 24-hour cable, bringing us the worst stories—especially child abductions—from all corners of the globe. (Aruba, anyone? Portugal?) When we flip to TV police dramas like "CSI," we see maggots and autopsies and the freakiest, saddest scenarios Hollywood can dream up, usually involving duct tape. These stories, so graphically told, sear themselves on our brains. Pick up a parenting magazine instead, and we find article after article, "Is your child's crib safe?" "Is your child's food safe?" "Is your child's [fill in the blank with something that seems extremely safe, like a pillow] safe?" If that magazine can't convince us that it has some lifesaving info that we really must read to keep our kids alive, we won't buy it. So it's in the same biz as TV News: It simply has to scare us.

In short: we are being brainwashed with fear and it makes us worry that everything we do as parents may be putting our kids in danger. That's why we judge other parents so harshly, and why we keep our kids cloistered like Rapunzel. Don't get me wrong. As founder of the Free-Range Kids movement—a group of people who believe in giving kids more freedom and responsibility—my philosophy is not to throw kids out of the car (sorely tempting though that may be at times). But Free-Range parents do believe that kids are more capable and competent than we give them credit for. And that, after teaching them basic safety, they need some freedom to develop as smart, happy, responsible humans. Not crazy freedom. Just the kind of freedom we had, back when parenting decisions were not the stuff of national news.

Skenazy is founder of the blog-turned-parenting-movement FreeRangeKids.com and author of, "Free-Range Kids: Giving Our Children the Freedom We Had Without Going Nuts with Worry." (Wiley, April 2009)

Counting Down

2009-05-04T09:10:00.003-06:00

My pregnancy is fairly all-consuming at this point. I would like to have thoughts on the public reaction to the Swine Flu and the following come down of safety. The fact that our VP has already been caught in a Clinton-sized lie and the media basically glossed over it. I would even like to start reading a new book or finish an already started one, but I can't seem to focus on anything other than my growing belly and the wrath that is shortly to be released on my somewhat peaceful life.
This obsession takes many forms. While reading, either online or a book, my little Grover starts to squirm and I try to imagine what he's doing in there, what he looks like, meeting him for the first time, etc. While sitting down to zone out for a few minutes and give my poor feet a break I start to stress out about all the things I really want to finish before he comes. Then I start to imagine what it'll be like once he's actually here. I have fuzzy memories of a very dark time in my life called "Love in the time of Colic" where I felt a love like nothing I've ever known and yet I thought my life had ended in the wake of screaming infant.
In some ways I just want him to be here. I want to see him and start to get to know him. I know it's weird for some people but I am so excited to get to nurse again. I miss that particular bond with Killian and I am excited that I get to experience that one more time. But I am terrified beyond description. I have more fears this time. Last time I loved my tummy-baby so much from the second I considered the notion that he might be in there. This one is taking more time in the bonding department for me. I have a few theories as to why this is, but none of them ease my fear that this half-love may not bloom into the passionate obsession that I had for Killian for the first while.
In some ways I can accept that you will never love again like you did the first time. I have experienced this in my non-mothering life and I assume that it can tend to be similar with one's children. After all, I kind of know what's coming. By the very act of expecting to hear the stars sing and the see the world in the eyes of my son, I am setting myself up for disappointment.
But then there is the odd feeling that I am already divided between my two boys. I vacillate between resenting Grover for taking a part of me from Killian, for making me a mother of two, for just being here. But then I get so so excited that I will have two little people! Two boys seems like such a rowdy, fun way to live life. I want to teach them to hike and climb and swim and ski. I know they'll shoot targets with their dad and come home to bake cookies with their mom. And I know that all these experiences will be richer for them because they'll always have each other. I know the bond of two siblings is unlike any other. When they are grown and their dad and I are unreachable on some mountaintop, river, or desert they will always be able to call each other for a piece of home.
I guess I am just scared of another baby, not another child. While I did love Killian every single day, I did not love the stage of my newborn. I take so much more pleasure in my toddler than I ever did in my baby. And knowing this is coming it's a little hard to imagine a pleasant 2009 and that just doesn't seem fair to any of us.

Non-shiny

2009-04-29T14:12:00.002-06:00

Argh! Maybe I am throwing a massive hormone-fit but what is with the Plan Changers?
You know the people that decide that they are going to take the current plan and throw it out to suit their needs? If an event of any sort is set then don't go switching it around to please yourself. If the date is inconvenient, then DON'T GO! Don't ask people, whether it be a bride and groom or a book club, to change everything around so that it is less hectic for you. If a group has plans to go on a camping trip and you get invited, don't suddenly ask to go somewhere else because you heard it was better/different/closer/whatever. Just plan your own damn trip and save the group your hassles.
Please take my little piece of advice and be a good friend to those around you. If you want to be at an event, then make it happen. If something more important is happening on that date then that really sucks, but that is life. Send your regrets like a normal person who was raised to be respectful of other people's time. If you're really that important to the event then your friends or family will work to accommodate you. If you're not then feel free to blog about it.

Mental Stimulation

2009-04-26T16:19:00.002-06:00

I seem to have had a lot of really good conversations lately. The very best being with my great friend Stacy. We had a wonderful give and take over a book that it seems everyone has read, Twilight. Of course we occasionally veered into drooling over the werewolves in the next movie, but we had a lot of fun discussing character motives and sympathetic protagonists, sticky plot points and hidden agendas. It was a real, grown-up conversation that never touched on children, which is rare for two mothers. And I loved it.
I have been having so much fun lately discussing everything from books to the current economic situation in relation to Japan in the 90s to recycling viability in my community. Since having Killian almost two (TWO?!) years ago I rarely have a conversation that doesn't at least include him, if not center around him. I hate it sometimes and I try very hard to separate "Katy" from "Mom" but since we are the same person the lines are often blurred. How can I have a discussion about the sorry state of the public school system without relating it to what my son's experience will be? But slowly but surely I am gaining ground in the "Katy" version of me. Because I sure do miss being a real person with thoughts and ideas about something other than daycare and child rearing!
One of my biggest pet peeves is when I ask a woman/mother "How are you?" and the reply is "Oh, well Johnny has had diarrhea." Or some such nonsense. First, I didn't ask how Johnny's diaper looked this morning, I asked about YOU. Remember, my friend? The funny, witty person with opinions about the world and a great fashion sense. I fear that people will ask that about me when I am drowning in two kids.
I know that the first year or so of having a baby it is all child-centered and I hope I make peace with that this time around. But after that maybe I will find a way to concentrate on something more than one book a month read for my book club. I hope that there is light at the end of the infant tunnel where there is room in my brain for more than colic cures and breast-feeding positions!
Because I discovered so much during that Sunday afternoon conversation. About a favorite book, a favorite friend and even myself. And it was great not being so "mommed out" for an hour or so.

Follow the Motto

2009-04-14T12:47:00.004-06:00

A wise woman once said, "Don't be a dick". I have heard my dear friend say this on numerous occasions and I always laughed and agreed but I have recently started to hear it reverberating through my head like an 80's pop song featuring too much electric keyboard. I decided to take my own advice and set out on a spiritual journey to not be a dick. I am finding it harder than I would have thought.
When I want to get on the freeway by my house I usually stay in the far lane, speed past all the cars waiting for their turn to get into the turning lane, then I jump ahead of some slow person and steal their turn to enter the freeway. I'm sure this saves me very little, if any, time but I like to get places NOW. I realize that this isn't exactly following the motto. So instead I tried to follow the motto and wait my turn. Well that didn't go much better. I ended up screaming at the lady in front of me that wouldn't just turn! Granted she couldn't hear me but my blood pressure and son both got the gist of what I was saying. Follow the motto....even if no one else will see you breaking it.
My reasons for undertaking this arduous path are numerous. I heard the saying recently "Keep the shiny side up." It was referring to a motorcycle but in that weird way that things tend to do, it really struck me. What a great life motto! I suddenly saw all the many ways that I had failed to keep the shiny side up and how I could apply my newfound mantra to all facets of my life. In friendships I should work more on keeping my shiny side up. I know my marriage could benefit from a shiny Katy. And my son could probably stand to see me smile a little more and scream at other drivers in an erratic fit of road rage a little less.
So now I am following the motto. Or trying to. I hope that all around me will benefit from this experiment and I really hope it will help me cope with those third trimester mood swings!

All is Well

2009-01-07T22:39:00.002-07:00

I am going to gush for just a moment here, please feel free to skip.
My newest little Burnside Boy is just perfect, as far as any doctor can see. Apparently the ultrasound technician saw something and proceeded to send me running and practically screaming to google anything I could think of. What I found made me feel better, but I did not sleep well last night.
I spoke with the nurse this morning and after a few hours of phone tag and persistent questions on my part it turns out that all that stress was seemingly for naught. The radiologist had nothing to note except normal functions as for wee Grover (my in utero buddy) and his cardiac functions. I made my OB re-check the ultrasound and the nurse called the radiologist to be sure and all professional opinions concur. My perfect little man is seemingly fine and I can breathe again. I have also come out of my dark cave and resumed normal speech patterns.

The world does revolve around me, thank you.

2009-01-06T14:16:00.002-07:00

There is a test that is offered to pregnant women and it's commonly called a Triple Screen. It has a very high false positive rate and is slowly falling out of fashion due to causing much needless worry and being quite inaccurate. When offered this Triple Screen I decided to take it for two reasons. One, forewarned is forearmed as far as I can see. And two, if I get a positive I get an early ultrasound. In addition I had this test with my son and it was negative so it was just a small addition of reassurance.
Well, the good news is...IT'S A BOY!
And the not-so-good news. My Triple Screen came back positive but the ultrasound showed no problems to match the test.
More not-so-good news. I have placenta previa. If this continues until late in the third trimester I will have a scheduled C-section. No big deal for the baby boy, very bad for me.
And the really not-so-good news. The ultrasound did detect a defect in my boy's heart walls. He has all four chambers but there is a thickening of a chordae. I do not know what this means so if anyone has any information I would welcome it. My doctor should contact me sometime tomorrow and I will hopefully have more information and a fetal eco (heart test thingy) scheduled.
For now I am going to assume all will be well but I will try to update my page when I can.

It Could Always Be Worse

2009-01-01T12:57:00.000-07:00

Couple arrested in Christmas Day brawl over video game

http://www.bostonherald.com/news/regional/view.bg?articleid=1141384

Wii are the world

By Richard Weir
Saturday, December 27, 2008

Woe is Wii.

A Portsmouth, N.H., couple yesterday blamed each other for their black and blue Christmas when they got into a violent fight - and arrested - after an argument over a gift of the popular Nintendo video game.

“This was the worst Christmas ever,” Randi Young, 24, said a day after she and her boyfriend, Heath Blom, 26, were both cuffed and carted off by cops on misdemeanor charges of “domestic-related” simple assault.

Police were called to South Street home where the couple lived with Blom’s grandparents at 1:55 p.m. Christmas day. Officers arrested the pair upon observing bruises on each of them.

Portsmouth police said tempers flared because the boyfriend was smarting over not getting the present he wished for. “Heath Blom wanted a remote-controlled airplane for Christmas, and not the Wii,” said Sgt. Kuffer Kaltenborn.

Blom, a flooring contractor, said the cops got it wrong, and that he had asked his grandparents to get him the $1,000 airplane for his birthday next April. “You can’t fly an RC plane in the snow,” he said.

But he admitted disparaging the Wii game to his grandma and angering his girlfriend, who accused him of being an ingrate.

Blom, still nursing a shiner from the fight, said she called him names “for not liking the Wii.”

“He said he hated it. It hurt her feelings,” remarked Young, who said her boyfriend “told his grandparents that he changed his mind” about waiting until his birthday and wanted them to buy him the pricey plane for Christmas. “When he didn’t get the plane, he got really upset. He acted like a 10-year-old kid,” she said.

One fight led to another and soon Young was packing her bags. Blom said he got angry when his girlfriend hid the Wii game. “I thought she was walking off with it.”

“He dragged me down two flights of stairs, by the hair,” Young said.

But Blom said, “I stood in the doorway trying to block her. She punched me in the eye. She punched me three times. I said ‘That’s it.’ And I pulled her hair.”

Ricky Young Sr., 52, said Blom and his daughter, who he said was left with a “knot on her head” and a swollen nose, “fight like little kids. . . But to fight on Christmas, of all days. That’s crazy.”

Second time around

2008-12-28T11:21:00.002-07:00

Last time I was pregnant (by the way, I'm expecting again!) I didn't blog. Instead I wrote long and probably inane ramblings about every tiny change that I'd noted that month or sometimes week. I sent these compositions to a rather large list of friends in my gmail address book and prided myself on keeping my loved ones up to date. Looking back I feel like they must have seemed so self-absorbed. And honestly, I was as self-absorbed while pregnant as I probably was as a teenager, which is really saying something. I seemed to think that I had invented pregnancy and I revelled in it.
So this time around I have yet to send a single email. I now blog and almost 4 months into my gestational adventure this is the first time I have decided to publish something I wrote about it. Am I really less self-absorbed? Well if this "me-me-me" post tells us anything it is that no, I'm not.
But maybe I am. It's only been 2 years since I was at this phase of my life and I am a different person. I can't say that is a completely good thing, because I really miss a lot of the pre-breeding Katy, but I am different.
I now know that the pregnancy part is just a waiting game, and I have never been known as a patient one. Instead of focusing on every twitch of my child-in-the-making I can now laugh at the crazy grimaces of my toddler. And instead of rock climbing and reading detailed descriptions of my in utero friend, I now have a picky eater to coerce food into.
And humility is me. I do not carry off pregnancy well. I have many pictures of my bloated self that remind just how large I get while pregnant. And now I know that I have a very hard time losing weight while breastfeeding, so I continue to be large for many months to follow. So I am not reveling in this pregnancy. I am terrified of having another baby in my house but so excited to meet my new little person. I am petrified of getting stretch marks this time around since I lucked out last time. I can't stand the thought of waddling around like a seal on land while trying to hold a screaming two year old. And did I mention comes at the end of all this indignity?! A screaming, demanding, non-sleeping, fragile little baby.
A beautiful, amazing, loving little creature. Someone else to make my stars align and my world make sense.

Jobbing

2008-11-11T12:59:00.002-07:00

The economy. Ick, what a boring word. I took Economics from a stoned, half brain-dead old hippie at Pocatello HS. Needless to say I didn't learn much. I do remember watching 'Men In Black' for the first time in that class. What does Will Smith have to do with Economics you ask? Well, I didn't bother to because I wasn't very interested in Economics so watching MIB was just as interesting. Now I'm old and cleverly disguised as a responsible adult and I actually care, a bit, about boring subjects like Economics and I fear I may have missed out on something. But given the state of our public education system, I probably didn't.
So the economy. Right now it sucks. My grocery spending has increased dramatically over the last several months. My fuel bill hasn't changed much, since I did actually manage to drive less according to gas prices. I am trying to continue the good habits I developed, I swear! But the prices of everything have gone up so much that it's definitely affecting our savings accounts in my house. It is much harder to find a bargain and my checkbook is feeling the pinch.
So I am currently seeking part-time, temporary labor. There is no reason to be scared of the big, bad world of employers. I have done it before. So why am I so hesitant to actually start looking? Well, I dread the thought of leaving my boy for hours and hours everyday. I don't know how people manage that. And I am, of course, afraid to fail. What if I have to call in because K is sick? What if my own house goes to shambles because I am too busy and tired to bother with it? What if I can't learn new skills, I don't catch on as quickly as I used to or I just don't do well? What in the world will Kelly think? I haven't even brought it up to him. He's always been of the mindset that I should just do whatever I want (what a guy!) but he has made his feelings regarding daycare very clear. Is it the same if Killian is just going to one of my mommy friends for a few hours? And how exactly do I feel about that? I would never leave him with someone that I was worried about, but there is always that nagging doubt. Somehow you just know that no one else will watch him quite as closely, even though I am way more laissez-faire than most people I leave him with. Then there is that worry that he'll scream ceaselessly and my friend will resent me, hate my child and our friendship will suffer.
But mostly I think I am really just scared that I am not as good as I used to be. I am spoiled. I'm a stay-at-home mom which is, in all honesty, isn't a difficult job. My customer may be difficult to please but his smiles and giggles and learning curve are all more than enough compensation for the crap hours and manual labor.

If I were more articulate when angry I would sound something like this

2008-11-10T22:20:00.002-07:00

'Inconsolable: How I Threw My Mental Health Out With the Diapers'

Marrit Ingman's new memoir: an excerpt

THE UNITED STATES OF GENERICA

I want Picture People to burn, motherfucker, burn.

Our story begins with Julie, our photographer, who probably got this job by talking about how she just loves kids. I bet she has a niece or a nephew. She's probably very nice.

But if she doesn't get that rainbow-colored feather duster out of my kid's face, I'm going to wrestle her to the floor and shove it up her ass.

Each time she waggles the duster in Baldo's face she makes a great, ululating cry, like Xena: Warrior Princess. I can't imagine anyone being amused by this. Perhaps some children are sufficiently chuckleheaded to smile at her capering, her loathsome propeller beanie, her safari vest with epaulets, but mine is not. Mine has dissolved into a weeping mass on the floor of the storefront photography studio.

There are rooms in back that are quieter, that are full of toys for children to actually handle and enjoy, but Corporate Policy dictates that we will occupy the first room – the one in view of the foot traffic in the mall. Presumably, the sight of my child posing with props will melt casual pedestrians into gooey submission, their wallets oozing $10 sitting fees for their own grandkids and offspring. If Julie stands him in front of the blue background holding an oversized Valentine's heart – which she actually suggests – customers will stream to the service desk and join the Photo Club.

I resent this on principle – my son is not a posable Precious Moments action figure built to advertise their services, and if he'd rather stand on the stool than sit on it, why can't Julie just photograph that? – but also because Baldo is clearly nonplussed by the pressure. He doesn't understand why he can't climb into the giant, multicolored, camera-shaped playhouse that is paces away; he doesn't understand why Julie keeps crossing his feet. Nor do I.

"Can't we just leave his feet uncrossed?" I wonder, after he sags into a natural bowlegged repose one more time.

"I don't want to get the bottom of his feet." Julie is readjusting her lens.

"Hold you," Baldo sobs, collapsing into my arms.

"Let's stand on this blue paper and look at Julie's camera," I suggest cheerily. I extend my arms, but Baldo is still wadded up into a tiny ball, his feet tucked, tears squeezing from his eyes. I set him down on the paper.

He stays in place but isn't smiling, so Julie ululates and tickles him with the feather duster. Has this woman any knowledge of the toddler psyche? I worry that we appear stupid to the other parents looking on. There are two three-year-old twins with luxuriant, brown, bow-topped hair and matching pink sweater sets looking on as if the scenario is routine and Baldo's behavior is afoul of it. Ours is a topsy-turvy world if Julie's method of relating to children is the preferred one.

Finally her camera flashes. Baldo runs toward the camera-shaped playhouse, and I have to drag him back. He back-dives, tantrums, screams as if he's being burned. He sinks his teeth into my shoulder. I put him down and begin talking to him calmly, holding his hands, trying to untantrum him.

Julie's beanie pops up over my shoulder. "Uh-oh! We've got a biter!"

I glare at her.

She breaks character. "That's, like, only the second biter I've had. He must be in daycare."

I'm going to strangle this woman with her rainbow suspenders. "No, he's at home with me."

"Did you teach him to bite?"

We struggle through the close-up.

"Let's talk props." Julie lobs the suggestion about the oversized Valentine's hearts.

"This may sound peculiar," I counter. "But do you have a broom?"

"A broom?" As if she's never heard of one.

"He really likes brooms," Jim explains. "It'll be fun for him."

Still her face is blank.

"You know, like in the back? For sweeping up?" I add.

"Well, yeah ... I guess we have one. But it's not a prop broom."

"If he holds it, is it not a prop?" I wonder. This blows her mind for a minute.

"Wait!" she snaps her fingers. Julie is so smart! "There's a witch's broom for Halloween!" She returns with a child-size plastic broom. Even the bristles are a solid mass of plastic. She hands it to Baldo, and he begins dragging it along the floor. He won't stand and pose with it.

The twins are still staring.

"This isn't working." I wrest the plastic broom out of Baldo's hand.

"Okay, we'll just go with those two shots." Julie is rejiggering her camera.

"No, this isn't working." I thrust the broom at her. "This environment is frustrating for toddlers. Are you sure we can't use one of the quieter rooms?"

"We have to use the front room first," she reiterates. "We can only use the back rooms if the front room is occupied."

"That's ridiculous. He's not going to just stand here while people are going by in front of him." School-age kids are scrambling past, gawking inside the photo studio.

I pick Baldo up, and we walk off. "Your pictures will be ready after noon!" Julie chirps.

We walk the entire length of the mall back to where we've parked.

"God, I hate this fucking place," Jim mutters.

"We're never coming back here," I agree in the elevator.

"Except to look at our pictures."

"Yeah."

We are all hungry and twenty minutes from home. We drive halfway back to eat at a restaurant that isn't a chain. Baldo tantrums in the chair.

I'm really sick of this crap, to the extent that it makes me want to smash shit up, and that's a big statement from someone who is easily placated by pie. I want to see a bunch of crazy parents dancing orgiastically around a bonfire of stupid prop hearts, oversized stars and moons, and industrial carpeting.

I'm going to put a sledgehammer through the window. I want to pull down and shatter all those stupid portraits on their walls – the ones with hapless infants strapped into angel wings; the ones with families all dressed alike, like they're starring in some kind of prime-time variety show from the 1970s with Harvey Korman. I want to grind all the fake, forced smiles into a thousand tiny pieces under the heel of my boot. All those generic faces, all those people wearing their cutest outfits from Old Navy, all the prints and package specials framed and hung on tasteful beige walls in McHouses from Scottsdale to Fort Myers. With the same couches and the same IKEA bin of LeapPad toys. All abiding by the same rules: Children must smile. We must not see the soles of their shoes. They must climb onto stepladders or big red wagons and be as whimsical as possible.

All this stuff is family-unfriendly. It's corporate-friendly. Why do we pump our money into this crap? Certainly we love our children. Why do we allow people in propeller beanies to torment them? Some of us know better. We skulked through high school in our Siouxsie t-shirts, refusing to smile when we weren't particularly happy; then we bred and some sleeper cell inside our brains activated, releasing a hormone that makes us disintegrate whenever Hanna Andersson has a sale. Striped tights! We must have striped tights!

What I'm really asking is this: Why is the mall where all the families are?

I saw all these mothers walking around with their babies in Pope-globe hermetic strollers. I had no idea there were so many other people with children in my town. I'd flag them down, but there's no place for us to stop and stand, to talk to one another. We're supposed to roam around like cattle, stopping only to buy or eat or piss.

It concerns me that for so many postpartum women walking around the mall with the baby is their way to "go out." Go out and what? Be isolated in public? Be surrounded by pictures of Abercrombie and Fitch models? Granted, when the four walls are closing in, anything is better than staying at home. But isn't there a better alternative?

I used to fantasize about a giant room with a soft, semi-padded floor, like a gym mat. A drain in the middle of the room to hose down the snot and graham cracker crumbs at the end of the day. You pay a buck or two to go inside with your baby. There are piles of toys, separated into different areas by age. You can plunk your three-month-old down on a playmat and sit and be among mothers. There'd be a coffeepot percolating in the corner, maybe some muffins that somebody brought in.

There will be no organized activities here. You will not be coerced into "circle time." The babies will not be made to play with scarves or clack claves along to some dorky music. And it is clear to all that this is not exclusively for the benefit of your child. This is not some shit to bring out your child's aptitudes or help her get into an exceptional preschool. This is because parenting is a group activity. We are not meant to be sectioned off into little dyads. We are supposed to interact and share our wisdom. We are meant to bitch to each other when we need it, to encourage each other when we need it. The very expression "Mommy and Me class" makes it clear that the baby is the subject and the mother the object.

For some parents, my dream is a reality. A friend who has recently moved to Hong Kong reports that her apartment complex has a "toddler room" for playtime. "Wow," she opines. "It's incredible. Padded floor and a baby ball pit. Lots of toys and books and tons and tons and tons of babies."

Other parents have told me about Family Place, a community center for families in Canada. One Vancouver location offers preschool activities, a toy library, parent support (including a home-visit service), and licensed "childminding" for kids eighteen months and over. The program receives government support from the city and from the Ministry for Children and Families, so admission costs 50¢. Fifty cents. Canadian.

"Family Place kicks ass," one parent told me. "It is one of the major things that I love about living here, that I think every neighborhood in the States could use."

This wouldn't fly in the United States. Not just because we do not mix government and parenting. More to the point is that we do not allow low-key, self-directed play. We have to make childhood as noisomely cheerful and strenuous as possible. Our "family restaurants" have to have birthday whistles and kiddie cups with licensed characters on them. We are – to quote a movie I recently reviewed – the "Fun Police." If you aren't having fun, fun will be provided for you! We can't allow our children to just sit there and stack blocks. We will regulate their activities so that every kid meets a Minimum Standard of Childish Glee. We will have DVDs in our minivans so that the ride from playgroup to Chuck E. Cheese is as fun as possible! Everything a child touches has to have at least one flashing light and beeping noise. You can't even have a plain toddler toothbrush. No, your toothbrush will be fun! With patented Fun Bristles™ and Fruit Berry Fun-sation training paste! The strawberries on the tube are smiling! Your diapers have smiling dinosaurs on the waistband! They're so happy to decompose and provide petroleum for your ass!

This shit exhausts me utterly. No wonder I'm medicated. Parenthood is the mass madness that childhood should be a big, giddy laugh riot; rather, it is complex and often frustrating to those who experience it. Childhood does not exist to look cute and move a product. Childhood is an end in itself.

Woe is you who venture outside of the officially sanctioned childhood spaces. People will look at you as if you've stepped out of a spacecraft with an extraterrestrial clutching your hand. What is that ... that small thing with her? Why is it so noisy? Can't she control it? It hurts my ears! You will be deported to the McDonald's Play Place and made to genuflect before a giant corporate clown. You will eat food formed into nugget shapes. And you will like it, or else be cudgeled with a novelty diaper bag.

Where families cluster – those commuter neighborhoods – the big-box retailers follow. The organic full-fat baby yogurt they used to stock has been replaced with a brand with a Disney tie-in. It's got high fructose corn syrup, hydrogenated oils, and "poppin' color crystals™" that create a swirl effect. No more bland banana and vanilla – these come in Cotton Candy and Bubble Gum flavors. And there's a story – featuring a popular licensed character, of course – on the bottom of the lid! Another brand offers an "Orange Strawberry Banana Blowout." What used to be a starter food for kids trying out dairy now promises to be a complete multisensory experience, packed with as many flavors and action verbs as possible, lest we risk understimulating our children.

Must our yogurt be so amusing? No wonder our lives feel empty when we graduate to low-fat and all it has is a cow on the package.

To access the yogurt, you will run a gauntlet of greeters who make goofy faces at your toddler and possibly present him or her with a helium-filled balloon. If you are particularly unfortunate, your child will be latex-allergic and break out into a rash by the time you reach the dairy case. If you reject the balloon, your child's tearful wailing will echo from the tire shop to the photo lab. You have become the person you sneered at when you were young and single and knew everything. You are That Mother.

But it's not really your fault. You were doomed by the giant parking lot, the humming fluorescent lighting, the prominent placement of SpongeBob SquarePants, the giant, talking cardboard standees of NASCAR drivers. There is a conspiracy afoot; its purpose is to dope you and your child into grinning yourself to death. And you better smile, or else that feather duster's coming back.

Loser

2008-11-03T12:30:00.003-07:00

Am I really so weak? Or are the other moms just better at the facade? I have made no secret of what a hard time I had with my son as an infant but everyone else always seems to slip into their new role with such ease. My friends with wee ones always seem to have their houses put together, they run errands and have social lives. My son was almost 4 months old last Halloween and I spent the evening in the house, crying and trying to stop him from screaming as if he were being tortured. We didn't even pretend to go trick or treating.
I was just on my friend's blog, Jenni. She recently had twins, which makes for 5 very, very young children in her house and she is already back to her photography and it looks like she's been very busy. And yet she has found time to take professional portraits for pay, she has taken fall pictures of her boys, costumed pictures of all her kids and even family pictures! She has even found a way to get her hair done and lose all her baby weight. What a role model.
I am petrified to be jumping back into the world of newborns. So there it is, my big blog announcement! Kelly, Killian and I are expecting a new love in our lives this June. And I am terrified! Last time I had no idea what I was getting into. I blissfully waddled around enjoying my little guys' pokes and prods, completely ignorant of the life-wrenching terror that was shortly to come. Now I know. And I am terrified.

A Rant

2008-10-29T20:29:00.002-06:00

How many recalls regarding baby-killing products do I need to hear about before I get it through my thick skull? DO NOT BUY PRODUCTS FROM CHINA. Sure I have put back a delicious looking salmon fillet because it had a "Product of China" sticker on the front. And I spent a few days last fall checking my baby toys for the lead recall and I have even gone as far as replacing my brand of curry seasoning with a non-Chinese import. But all of these had labeling that was basically shoved into my sight before I noticed they were from China.
As a teenager I swore I would boycott Chinese goods until they had some semblance of a human rights policy that they actually followed.
Last year there was a massive toy recall on toys imported from China and I promised myself then that I would check toys that I buy to confirm they were not manufactured in China.
Even this year, just a few months ago, I again told myself that I should boycott Chinese products based on their invasion of Tibet!
But I have yet to do it. I am weak, lazy and forgetful. In my mind I get upset and I remind myself of all the evils of China and I always think, "I should try hard to boycott 'Made in China' products." But I lack the follow-through.
Well, no more. The poison candy that is being sold in my Americas has done it for me. China cares nothing for the safety of its own innocent babies and children across the world. They continually send deadly chemicals into the mouths and bodies of children in their own lands and across the globe. Chinese officials have allowed melamine-poisoned formula to be fed to newborns in their hospitals and several babies died as a result. Government officials knew for months that there was a deadly toxin the formula and yet nothing was done until the New Zealand company with a large percentage of ownership in the formula company finally forced a public recall. (1.)

So join me, please. Help me to use our power as consumers to make the officials of China listen to the people. Not only will we not allow them to poison our pets, our children and ourselves, but we will not support a government that knowingly poisons its own infants. We will not use our American dollars to fund a government that invades a peaceful country like Tibet and oppress its people, jail their dissidents and brutalize innocents. We will no longer allow our money to be sent to a government that acknowledges and allows the infanticide of hundreds of thousands of female babies. BOYCOTT CHINA

For more information on how to boycott China please click the links below.

No More China
A fruitless quest to Boycott China
Why Boycott China?
Friends of Tibet
How One Family Came to Boycott China

(1.) NYTimes Article

A Parental Paradox

2008-09-08T18:07:00.002-06:00

So you had a kid. Good for you. It changes everything.
I don't mean to demean anyone and their breeding skills, I just think that there is more to life than your progeny and frankly, you should too. But then there is me. I have so much more going on my head than my child. He is my first thought every morning but from there it's usually on to many, many things. All revolving around him in one way or another. And sometimes that's just plain annoying. To myself, and I am certain, to others around me. Logically I do understand that the sun does not, in fact, rise specifically to gleam upon his shiny blond head. But to look at my blog, my myspace page or any number of camera phone pictures you would think I had nothing else to do. And I suppose that is the paradox. In my head I am this thinking, fiery, decisive and independent person. But the reality of my internet activity shows a mom. Dare I say, just a mom? Now don't get all angry telling me that it's the hardest job and all that. I know all the rhetoric but really, it's not that hard. With all the rewards I get and perks in which I partake I think it's pretty easy. And I love it, which makes it all that much easier.
But with being a parent, or at least a mom, there is all this guilt and shame attached to being a person separate from your child. Somehow along with an embryo, I grew this insecurity that makes me feel as if I shouldn't have an identity. I place my child out in front of me like a shield or a badge of honor and I feel like he is the only part of me that matters anymore. As if it would be so selfish to assume that I should have thoughts and even go so far as to voice them. Thoughts that do not, at least on the surface, appear to be wrapped around my son. And then there is the other side of this rusty patina of parenthood. The small fact that I really do care about him that much. I love posting pictures of him and showing off this truly amazing being that has enriched every bit of minutiae in my life.
So here goes. This is Katy's Secret Online Life. And while it may seem like a shrine at which I worship my child it is actually about me and how I deal with my life. My life as a mom, yes, but also as a climber, as a political constituent, as a woman, friend, writer and thinking, fiery, independent and fairly indecisive person.

Sleeping Through the Night (and then some)

2008-09-04T12:03:00.004-06:00

Since I cam home from the hospital with my sweet Killian I have noticed that he sleeps better than most children in his age range. I spent the first 2 weeks of his life trying to wake him up to nurse for fear that he would starve to death while I held him. I was your typical hyper-sensitive first-time mom. I was convinced that if he ever had a bottle he would never care to breastfeed again. If he cried for a moment I immediately ran to him and did everything I could to soothe him. I rarely complained about waking up for him in the middle of the night and I would cry at the beauty of my child.
And then colic struck.
I had spent my entire pregnancy in mortal fear of 4 things. Miscarriage. SIDS. Autism. Colic. In about that order, too. If my child was born healthy then I was convinced I had to spend every waking second preventing Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. I did everything that was recommended for SIDS prevention and more. I bought a breathing alarm for his crib, I kept him in my room but in his own bed as long as possible and he slept in sleepsacks until he was tripping himself up in them. As for autism, well, I didn't really know what to do to prevent that. I still don't, but I don't really obsess over it anymore. I think I finally just wore myself down on that one because there are just no real answers.
But Colic. The word alone can still send shivers of icy fear down my spine. For nearly a year, yes a year, I had a cranky, screaming, sensitive little man attached to me. After the first two weeks of ignorant bliss my bundle of joy started to show signs of being not so joyful. I attributed it to circumstances. His dad had finally gone back to work so he wasn't with as many people as he'd been used to. Maybe I wasn't holding him enough. Maybe I held him too much? It could be the cup coffee that I drank in the morning. Was it the milk that I would ingest? Maybe he was sensitive to the cow's milk proteins in my breast milk. Well I tried it all. I cut out as much milk as I could. I cut back to one cup of half-caff coffee in the morning. I tried the 5 S's and read Dr. Spock. But all to no avail. My darling child would continue to scream for hours and hours all day long. And then, sometime past 8 or 9 at night he would just stop. And he would sleep. And sleep. By the time he was 7 weeks old he was pretty regularly sleeping for 7 hours. This pattern continued on so that he was sleeping 10 hours at 10 weeks and peaked once he was sleeping for 12 hours at 12 weeks old. I was still getting up for 1 very quick 5:00 am feeding until about 20 weeks, but this didn't even register on my radar.
While recovering from any particularly fierce bout of colic I'd remind myself that he slept so well all night compared to my friends' babies that maybe the days of endless screaming were worth it. I mean, at least I was well-rested enough to care for him, right? I told myself this often. As least I get to sleep all night long. Like a mantra...allllll niiiiiight loooooonnggggg....
And somewhere close to a year the colic started to wane. It wasn't the milk proteins or the caffeine in my breast milk because colic lasted at least 2 months past my weaning him in his ninth month. He just started to be able to deal with the world around him. I can't say what the change was, it just sort of slowly happened. There were days that I would lament that he was 6 months old and he was still colicky even though all the "experts" told me it doesn't last past 3 months. Thankfully I had some amazing friends that had also had "sensitive" little babies and they reassured me that their children were also quite a handful until about a year.
So now Killian is no longer colicky. He is, and probably always will be, on the sensitive side. But there is a very, very bright side to all of this. He still sleeps through the night! Last night Killian went to bed without a single tear or whine at 9:00 pm and didn't stir until 11:00 am. I have to say, I think I'd take a colicky sleeper over an all around easy child that just doesn't sleep. I knew it would be worth it one day. There is no cure for colic but there are blessings in every situation, you just have to be able to recognize them and cherish them.

A Year in the Making

2008-07-05T18:30:00.001-06:00

One year. An entire revolution on our planet Earth around the sun, which funny enough, doesn't have a proper name. My son, however, does have a name. A very big one: Killian Finneaus Burnside. I just added "Finneaus" to my Firefox dictionary! And this tiny little man with this great big name is a year old. George Carlin (the late & great) had a bit about our obsession with time and numbers. He remarked how we as a people love round numbers; well my little person isn't celebrating a round number in his life but he is celebrating a biggun, ONE!
I am actually an emotional rollercoaster about this amazing anniversary. In the last year I have officially went from the title "woman" to "Mom". I have fancied myself a huge freakin' whale to a bit of a MILF. I have lost over 40 pounds while my son has gained less than 15. I have went from a chick in her mid-2o's to what may as well be called a 30 year old. And through this last huge, nay giant, year I have had a love in my heart that I never knew was possible. I have had a child. It is indescribably wonderful and still incredibly difficult. I do still, and I suspect I will continue, to take everything personally when it comes to my boy Killian. If a kindly friend mentions he's a bit active I fret and moan about it for weeks. If he hasn't gained enough weight in between doctor's appointments I lament about being blind to his needs. I jest that the word precocious was invented for him. And through it all, I don't actually care what anyone thinks because I know. He is perfect. Allergies, colic, tempertantrums...through it all, I wouldn't change him for a moment. And that is true love. That is unconditional love. Every day I wake up and listen for that groggy voice and every day I am pleased to hear it.
It took a month for me to admit that I no longer have a baby but I am happy to be a mother to a toddler. He walks, talks and throws the cutest damn fits you could ever hope to see and he is mine. Life is good.

Frustration

2008-07-03T12:57:00.002-06:00

I'm going to have a tag made and put it on my dog. It will read "It seems I have run away again. My owners are not looking for me so I now belong to you. My name is Jooniper and I also answer to JoonieB. Nice to meet you, New Parent."

Currently Believeing in Miracles

2008-07-01T22:16:00.002-06:00

Dr. Parry, Killian's allergist, called yesterday morning and gave me some of the best news I have ever heard. Killian's antibodies to milk and egg are so low that on the scale they use he doesn't even qualify as "clinically allergic"! His dog and cat "scratch test" was negative so it wasn't the puppies causing his hives when my dad held him, which is mostly good, but now we have to start over figuring out that whole thing. But I don't even care because I am still so happy, so relieved, that my baby will probably have a normal diet. His numbers were so low that he can eat baked goods with milk and eggs which means.....HE CAN HAVE CAKE! My tiny little perfect person can have a tiny little perfect cake on his oh so special day. I don't understand how his hives are so bad when his antibodies are so low but I can just assume it has something to do with his very sensitive skin. He is extremely likely to outgrow his allergies! I am so thankful.
What an experience this has been. I can't even begin to tell you how many cupcakes I baked over the last few weeks. I had so much great support from my friends and family too, which is all that made it bearable. I, along with some very close friends, did a lot of research. I researched the lifestyle, cures, causes and treatments and we all researched SO many vegan recipes. My sister Kim and my neighbor Janeille (check out her blog www.pocatellostarvingrealtor.blogspot.com) both jumped right in to start baking and trying new things with me. They were both a constant stream of support and encouragement when I started to get down. Thank you both, I love you. My mom did what she does best in a time of crisis, she shopped! She is visiting us from Texas right now and she brought some great fruit strips and other vegan treats from fun health food stores that we don't have here. Killian has a lot of snacking options now, not that it improves his notoriously poor appetite. My step mom and dad were always there for us too. LuAnne was always ready to go to a doctor's appointment, no matter her sleeping schedule. You people rule! OK, there's my shout out to my support staff.
On a different note, I have two really good friends and they both have sons with extremely severe peanut allergies. If you were one of the people that added Killian to your prayers, good thoughts and well wishes, please add these two little guys, Kale and Felix. Thank you.
Since he was born I have been grateful for my son. Every single day, even the colicky ones, I was struck with the notion that I am so lucky to have a living, breathing healthy child. Whenever the screaming would get to be so bad that I would consider leaving him in the house alone for a few minutes or drinking a glass (bottle?!) of wine during the day, I would try to take a deep breath and remind myself that there are mothers nearby that would give anything to hear their baby again, even if he was screaming for hour three. When we heard the news that he was unlikely to outgrow these awful allergies that notion of his perfect life stretching out in front of us was crinkled up, but not shattered. I always knew that I had to be grateful we weren't having to fight a life-threatening illness, but it was still difficult to accept that he did have a fight for normality at such a young age.
To come back from that grief and have my beautifully healthy child restored to me with a phone call is overwhelming. I am overwhelmingly relieved. I am joyously grateful and emotionally unbound.
We still have a fight ahead, but it is manageable. He can't have raw milk or plain eggs and we'll abstain from cheeses, cream sauces and other dairy products but we are armed with so much information that it seems so minor a thing to give up! I have so many other options for snacks that not giving him cheese and crackers is just a splash in the ocean to me.
We will have Killian's blood tested again at two. Dr. Parry seems to think his antibodies will have gone down by then, although they may not be down to zero, maybe even ever. But again, this all seems so manageable now. I will have to deal with things as they come, but now, with my friends and family by my side and the love for my son to guide me forward, I know I can overcome anything and end up a better person for it.
Mushy gooey emotional stuff is now over!

Milk, eggs and puppies...Oh My!!

2008-06-23T15:01:00.005-06:00

For those of you who don't know we recently found out that our son, Killian, is allergy prone. We started to piece together some of the puzzle when he was around 6 months old. It all started when I bought some baby cereal, but I got a special "nighttime" version. I didn't bother to look at the ingredients and honestly I bought the "nighttime" just because the picture was cute and I thought it would maybe be a slower to digest formula or something. What else would I base my choice on??? The first time I fed it to him he pretty much refused to eat it and instead rubbed it all over his face, in his eyes, it was everywhere! I laughed and started to clean him up and figured we'd try again another day. As I was cleaning up I noticed red marks appearing on his face and his left hand, the one he'd used to swipe the spoon away. It seemed to me that these were hives indicative of an allergic reaction. I thought it seemed very odd for him to be allergic to baby cereal, but I called the doctor's office and explained and they recommended Benadryl. As my wee one was sleeping in his drunken stupor I checked the ingredients and noticed "whey" listed as an ingredient in the offending cereal. I mentally filed this and proceeded to basically ignore it but I did start checking all ingredients and making sure that Killian was never given anything with a milk based ingredient.

A few months later I was making homemade mac 'n cheese and holding my fussy little creature while I stirred. Once I needed two hands I sat him down to play near me and finished the pan of mac 'n cheese. Free from cooking duties for a moment I walked over to play with my progeny and again noticed the hives on his face. Something really clicked and I was trying to hold myself together as I called the doctor. I again explained the hives only this time I knew that I must have splashed some milk and cheese mixture onto him while I was stirring. I had recently had a conversation with a friend that is allergic to fish and eggs and he'd mentioned that fish is actually deadly to him and that if any touches his skin he gets a reaction immediately. So at this point I am picturing having to remove all milk ingredients from our home, implementing the strictest of safeguards and controls around our child all to keep the evil whey, lactose and other unsavory cow ingredients away from his sensitive system. All my research came up to tell me that he had about an 80% chance of outgrowing his allergy but something kept niggling in my head telling me that he probably won't be one of the lucky.
Two weeks ago I decided to give Killian eggs for his first time. He resolutely refused to even taste the scrambled eggs so being the kind and patient soul that I am I waited till he hollered at me and managed to sneak a bite of the eggs into his bellowing kisser. He cried harder and gagged a bit so I figured we'd try again a different day. As I was cleaning up the egg mess Killian's face started to turn red with hives beginning around his mouth. I took a piece of the egg and rubbed it on his cheek to test the reaction. His cheek had hives within minutes. For the third time in less than 6 months I called the doctor to explain his reaction and got into an appointment that afternoon. My step mom LuAnne and husband Kelly both accompanied us to visit Dr. Jensen of the Pocatello Children's Clinic. He pretty much told us the prognosis for Killian's recovery from these reactions is grim and referred us to Dr. Parry, an allergist.
We are currently waiting for our appointment with Dr. Parry and I am gathering information. I plan to be armed to the hilt with information and avenues to pursue. I have found clinical trials currently happening at France's Nancy University and Duke University here in the States in which they are having huge success in curing children's milk and egg allergies. Doctors are orally administering minuscule amounts of the allergen and increasing the dosage over two years. Children that could only stand 1/1000th of an egg at the start of the trial can eat two scrambled eggs by the end of the two year study! The outcomes from these trials clearly indicate that oral desensitization is a viable treatment for egg and milk allergies. I hope with all my heart that Dr. Parry will agree with me and help us to start a program ourselves in order to help us cure our child.
And for the third blow. Killian rarely let's other people hold him, especially my dad. It's been an ongoing joke that Killian just really doesn't like his Grandpa because he will scream and try to get away anytime my dad holds him. My dad has always been a good sport about it but I know it bothers him. I have noticed small red marks on Killian where my dad has kissed him, but I always assumed his beard had irritated his baby skin or that it was coincidence. The other day Killian was having a really good time playing with his Grandpa! LuAnne and I were so happy that Killian was being so social and we were all enjoying a nice afternoon until Killian once again broke out in hives. After some investigating we finally figured out Killian is allergic to our miniature pinschers. My dad has one too and Killian had gotten her hair on him, which caused the reaction.
So to date I am trying many eggless cake recipes for Killian's upcoming birthday, wondering if we'll have to find a home for our two dogs and trying to keep it together emotionally. I want everything to be so perfect for my boy and I truly hate that he may have to suffer with debilitating allergies for the rest of his life.
I will keep all posted on my eggless cake search. If you are a fan of cupcakes and would like to taste test for me I'd love the help. Email or call me, I'll drop some off and you let me know what you think of the texture, taste, etc.
Our appointment with the allergist is tomorrow and I will post about that as soon as I can.

2008-06-03T13:14:00.001-06:00

Just trying this thing out

2008-05-29T15:36:00.000-06:00

I have never had a real live blog before! I used to blog on myspace, like 90% of the rest of the world. That eventually got old and I switched to an email list when I got preggers. I called it my "Baby News" list and I would send out monthly-ish email updates of my pregnancy and life. Then Squishy stopped being an easy to manage fetus and became Killian my colicky little firecracker. With very little time to fit in luxuries like writing I stopped my email lists somewhere around month 2 of my little guy's life outside of my womb. Since that day about 10 months ago or so I have had a few requests from previous "Baby News" recipients for updates. Since I now worry about being one of those parents that shove pictures of their offspring into people's faces I am not comfortable resuming my emails but a friend suggested a blog and that seems like a good compromise. So I have just created KatysSecretOnlineLife and here we are! I have a few friends with blogs and they all have "blogspot" in the address so I typed "blogspot" into my search engine and followed the directions. I hope I can link to other people's blogspots and get updates when they post something, but we'll see how this thing works after I get my first blog posted.
If you're out there reading this please say hi and tell me you stopped by so that I know this is working. If you have a blog and can link to me (I'm picturing a myspace-like network, I hope that's a feature) please do. I love to read, I love to write and I would really like to join the world outside of Killian's bubble. I haven't been able to keep up with current events of the world at large or even what were once good friends of mine and I hope this can change that.
If you have any advice on this dealio go ahead and let me have it.
Thanks for reading!
Much love,
Katy