The day olds

I brought the 2 chicks home tonight. I hadn't read the parts in the book about chick care because I was planning on getting older birds. Thankfully, though, if the information on the good ol' Internet isn't reliable or helpful, I have the box the chicks came in to fall back on. It has very clear new chick "management guidelines".

Below is proof that the chicks will indeed dirty their food and are uncontrollable little heathens. They were in the larger box for less than five minutes when I looked in to see them bedding down in the feeder. Also, I do remember reading something about how you could tell if the chicks were too hot or too cold by seeing if they huddled together right under or really far away from the heat lamp. Here, they appeared to be in the far, far corner--the furthest away from the heat lamp. This scientific evidence, coupled with the fact that F, the ever helpful husband, said, "They look too hot. Don't fry them. Heh. Heh. Heh." as he was leaving for work, signaled to me that I should move the heat lamp up a few inches further away from the chicks.

Here, below, T is meeting the chicks. We sat here for at least an hour staring down at the chicks. Even I was bored with the chicks after that.

We were not going to name the chicks, because eventually, we are going to kill and eat them. I'm not sure I can psychologically tolerate killing and eating something I have named. However, there was much discussion of the chick that was called "jellybean". T seemed to come up with that name all on his own. If it sticks, then we'll see if "Jellybean" can be slaughtered in 2 years, or if he'll have to be a permanent part of the family.

Here, finally, are the chicks moving more normally about the box. This was after I moved the heat lamp up a bit. At the feed store, I was assured that these were girls. However, I am a bit worried about having gotten the right chicks, because the young man who was "helping" me asked me if I knew which chicks were which and if I could reach in and get them because he didn't want to touch them.

Finally, because I know there will be complaints and comments, such as, "Where was M?" "Poor M, she never gets to do anything...cough, cough, sniff, sniff...", I want it to be known that M was there for the entire hour staring down at the chicks too. It is just really hard to take a picture of her, while holding her up to look at the chicks, while making sure that T doesn't touch the heat lamp--so I have no proof that she was there. In my own defense, I've included the following photo of some oddities that occurred in our home previously, in which M was photographed. You can see from the photo below that she was very obviously having fun and is well-nourished and included in family play.

Don't be alarmed at the paneling.

Coop 2

My original chicken plan has flown the coop!

I had originally (not crispily...) planned to get some older birds from a local farm. Older birds seem so much less fragile. Older birds could go right out in the coop. They could skip the whole "heat lamp" stage, which seems so confusing to me. Older birds don't need the more expensive "starter" food.

BUT, the older birds have been sold.

So, tomorrow, I'm picking up "day olds."

Day old baby chicks. They are almost cuter than human babies...

For about six weeks they'll live in an amp box in the house with us, after that, we'll see what happens.

LLL Conference Part II

Also, at the conference, learned that the Canadians get a full year of maternity leave. Darn Canadians. LOL! Love you M and R!

La Leche League Conference

Over the weekend I went to a CE conference that was sponsored by the La Leche League and the University of Illinois.

Topic: Breastfeeding
Main speakers: Dr. Bob Sears and Dr. Jack Newman.

Dr. Bob Sears was a fine speaker but my heart belongs to Dr. Newman.

Now, even already, with the children so young, I understand that parenting is done alone in a group. There are other parents around everywhere. Another parent is sleeping next to you in bed. There are other parents at the school, at work, at the gym (okay--I don't go to the gym, but I know there are parents there), but, really, all the decisions you make for your children are yours alone. No one feels responsible for and dwells on these choices but you, not the other parents, not even your spouse. Your choices are made with input coming in from everywhere--the media, books, the doctor, the daycare, the spouse, the other parents, and finally, and often least, your instincts.

I already see that these decisions, that I've ultimately made alone in this group, could be daunting and forever haunting. I see how it is for my Mom, who still thinks back on choices that she made with me, and how she wonders if they were correct. Clearly, they were--Just look at me!

Wrong choices, right choices, they are all there in the growing and grown child--the living embodiment of your choices. Right there as a constant reminder.

When you do make a choice for your child, you want support. And this is where Dr. Newman comes in. Throughout the conference he did some wonderful teaching about specific things to help women with breastfeeding, but the most memorable things he said were these:

• He said that women don't fail at breastfeeding, but that we fail women.
• He said that we've created a bottle-feeding society that doesn't look at breastfeeding as the norm. He said that if you use the bottle-fed baby as the model of normal then the breastfed baby will fail.

I know that it's not often that parenting choices that I've made will be validated, but I felt wonderful and relieved after the conference. In my own breastfed babies it turns out that I was right to:

• say thank-you-very-much, and hang up on the telephone nurse that was telling me I needed to give the baby formula when he hadn't nursed the first night we were home together.
• to switch daycare when the provider told me that nursing was weird and creepy...and to leave that same instant after she angrily threw a blanket over T and the boob.
• tell the new daycare to stuff it (politely, of course) when they said that the babies needed to drink an enormous bottle-full each time.
• to tell the daycare to shove off (politely, of course) when they said I hadn't brought enough milk.
  
• tell the daycare that in our family my breast was more important than the bottle and that the babies could wait until I got there at lunchtime to feed them.
• not ever, ever, look at or measure the number of ounces that I pumped out.
• nurse through a pregnancy.
• nurse in public.
• not give the babies an iron supplement.
• sleep with the little monsters and let them nurse whenever they wanted in the night.
• tell the hospital nurse to bring in a damn bed (politely, of course) so that I could sleep with M when she was hospitalized.
• booze it up a bit in the evenings sometimes (politely, of course) while I nursed the babies.

These are all things that I was told to do or not do. The "do or not do" advice didn't fit with what my instincts were telling me. These are all things that weren't supportive to my breastfeeding endeavors. These are all things that Dr. Newman said were fine, or even normal!

I wish that all women who want to breastfeed had access to a guy like Dr. Newman. He's online, but it's not the same as having that overwhelming support in person. I wish that we, as a society, and as health care providers didn't fail women who want to breastfeed. I wish we did a better job supporting breastfeeding as a totally separate and different model than bottle-feeding.

And now, about my choices, about my instincts...I wanted to breastfeed those darn babies, and I did. I didn't listen to the advice that wasn't supportive, and I nursed them. I want very much to remember this as a success, something that I can look back happily on, many years from now, as I'm driving to bail the kids out of jail (Because I know all the choices I make won't be right! :).
Of course I'll have left them to spend the night in jail as a lesson--because that'll be my instinct in that situation...

Cooped up

It has been a goal of mine to raise some chickens for eggs, and eventually, ahem, meat. My Mom, who grew up poor, and therefore has many skills that I do not have, is going to help us with the latter.
The kids are old enough to fend for themselves now, or at least they can both walk... so I thought it was time to go ahead and get started with the chickens.

Step 1.

I ordered the coop. It, according to the seller's description, takes a half an hour and a screwdriver to assemble. I'll keep you posted.

Ode to Jennifer

Jennifer, dear Jennifer, we appreciated the clothes you gave us. We sorted through and found clothes befitting a princess...

We would never misappropriate the clothes to a boy named T,

...Never mis-use clothes, and dance prettily...
prettily, prettily...

Jennifer, oh, Jennifer, the clooooooooothes you brought to us, never looked quite like this on Miss Phee-bee

Refrain: HEY NOW! THOSE ARE MY CLOTHES. THEY WERE BROUGHT FOR ME... BROUGHT FOR ME BY MISS PHEEEEE-BEEEEEEEE...
WHY, OH, WHY ARE THEY ON BIG T?

I guess, oh, I guess, that he looks prett-y.

Close ups

Why these kids have to have their faces so close to the camera, I just don't know...

Birthday J

F and J made birthday cookies for the big 13th. These enormous birthday cookies have a lengthy history, which includes two batches of cookie dough, a lack of butter, and some cookies shaped like hockey pucks...but that is a story for another time. Gist is, these guys had fun.

The birthday cookie was decorated and topped by J, and presented with the traditional song. My family always sings in a deep and throaty voice, "AND MANY MOOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEE.", at the end of the birthday song. I have converted F and J so that they do this now too. I also do it at the birthday parties with F's nieces and nephews and F and J DON'T do it. At those times, there is usually an uncomfortable silence and then J and F pretend that they don't know me for a little while...but that is a story for another time. Does anyone else add "and many more." at the end of the song? It really is the best part.

Awwww. Guy hug!

The emotional moment was over quite quickly, and the boys got down to the business of eating the enormous cookies with fudge frosting, white icing and cool whip! Yummy.

Diaper Change

I was changing M's diaper last night and she was crying and writhing around in irritation. She is at that squirrelly age where she doesn't want to be bothered being still for anything, not even personal hygiene. T was upstairs, but he heard the ruckus.

He came barreling downstairs, shouting, "NOT DIAPER CHANGE FOR MARDELLA." "LEAVE HER ALONE." "MARDELLA DOESN'T LIKE THAT." "BE NICE MOMMY!" "DIAPER MARDELLA CHANGE NOT!" His sentence structure, never very good anyway, got poorer and poorer the more irate he became.

By the time he got all the way downstairs, it was over and Mardella was walking around looking pleased as punch, picking up blocks and stacking them up.

The Bottoms Book

Ever since I've lived independently I have had a book called "Bottoms" in my bathroom. It is a slick little coffee table book with pictures of, you guessed it--bottoms. Art photos, selections from paintings, drawings from antiquity...No text, just bottom after bottom after bottom.

Having a book called "Bottoms" in the bathroom amuses me. It always has, and I have moved it from house to house with me, always giving it a space of importance in the bathroom. When the kids got old enough to grab at things and ruin them, I had to tuck it away in a little basket with the bathroom magazines. And I FORGOT about it. I totally forgot that I had a book full of pictures of bottoms sitting in my bathroom and waiting to be discovered.

Last night, for the third night of what is appearing to become a routine, T and I were in the bathroom. He was sitting on the potty and I was pattering around doing personal grooming chores that need to get done--and really, why waste time when I have to be in there to supervise him? So I multi task.

He sits on the potty and I patter around. He is big enough that he can reach in and select his own magazine, and I let him. He reaches down, proclaims "This one." and pulls one out. Then he proceeds to page through telling me what pictures he sees. I pluck and paint and file and he says "A flower", "A sofa", "A paint bucket", "A wallpaper", "A window", "A door", "A hammer", "A drywall", etc. etc.
I have a lot of magazines about home improvement.

Last night, we continued with this new routine and I super-conditioned and whitened and he told me what he saw in the magazines. At one point, having tuned out to complete a very important task, I tuned back in. I heard him saying "A bottom", "A bottom", "A bottom". I looked over. He heaved a huge bored sigh as he flipped the page and saw yet another bottom. He looked up at me and shook his head, like, "This is the dumbest book in the whole world." He carefully put the book back in the magazine rack, pulled out a magazine, said "This one." and gleefully exclaimed as he turned the pages of "This Old House".
"A window", "A door", "A ladder".

No photos please.

Hoodlums (caption by J)