A Fine Line

Half Right

noreply@blogger.com (amy) — Wed, 25 Jun 2008 05:28:00 +0000

When I was young, my mother yelled frequently, "When you grow up, I hope you have a child just like you!"

What she should have been yelling was, "When you grow up, I hope you have a child just like me!"

Because I have both of those children, and I know exactly which one I understand, and which one drives me right to the brink of sanity in a brake-less Ferrari.

And Mom? I mean that in the nicest way possible. I wouldn't trade either one of you for all the diamonds in Tiffany's.

There's A Warning With This One

noreply@blogger.com (amy) — Tue, 27 May 2008 11:07:00 +0000

After reading my last blog post, my lovely, lovely friend in South Africa sent me a link to this video. But you might want to get a tissue or two ready first. And Mom, go pee before you click Play.

The Beginning Of The End

noreply@blogger.com (amy) — Sun, 25 May 2008 08:03:00 +0000

Well, it's happened. I'm on the downhill side of life. It doesn't seem fair, really, since I'm not even forty yet, but there it is.

Last night, a friend of Duncan's was over watching rugby with us. After the rugby, out of what I can only call inertia, we watched part of the most ridiculous movie I have ever seen. I couldn't concentrate on finding the plot because I kept wondering what on earth made anyone invest money in the screenplay, never mind the actors, the costumes or the film.

At one point, the lead actor broke into song. I said, "He's no Milli Vanilli." Duncan's 25-year-old friend looked at me blankly. "Surely you've heard of Milli Vanilli?" I asked in horror. He shook his head.

Mute and deflated, I turned back to the movie. After a couple of minutes, our friend said to Duncan, "Did you do the choreography on this thing?"

I said (with a speed of wit I can't usually muster), "No, Richard Simmons did." Duncan chuckled heartily, but the 25-year-old gave me the same blank look. And do you know, I think he was totally unaware of the devastation he had wreaked.

This morning, I rubbed Deep Heat on my aching joints, pressed the button to raise the head of my therapeutic bed, and clutched my Zimmer frame for the long walk to the loo.

Oh, The Mirth Inspired By A Single Phrase!

noreply@blogger.com (amy) — Wed, 06 Feb 2008 14:14:00 +0000

Though I’ve always loved to write, as a child I refused to keep a diary, or write anything that spoke of my feelings. I had a fear of doing so, in case anyone actually read it. The written word is far more easily used against a person than the spoken word, a phenomenon that has often puzzled me over the past few decades.

Sure, the written word stands as its own proof. It’s hard to deny that you said something if a document exists to prove otherwise. And that’s what I was so afraid of all those years ago. That someone might take my innermost feelings and use them against me, a fear that is not entirely unfounded, though it does seem a lot sillier now than it did then. What was the worst that could happen? I wish I’d known then what I know now: that what exists inside most people’s minds would sound equally crazy. And equally normal.

And, of course, people did it anyway, whether I wrote the words, spoke the words, or simply wore the words on my face like the open book that I am.

But I grow older, and bolder, and I’m not so afraid of words. Quite obviously. However, now I ponder the strength of the written word. Why is it that when something is written down, it is so much more powerful than if it is merely spoken?

And why is it that some people have the idea that if the words are written, they must be truth? In fiction, the story must be “true” if it is to be believed. That is, it must summon from our minds the ring of truth, regardless of how fantastical it may be.

But in fact, in boring old fact, in written works of documentation, merely writing the words on a page does not make them true. And pity the fool who thinks he can fool me that way.

Nevertheless, I wrote certain words that have inspired someone else to write certain other words, and while not all of those other words hold the ring of truth, the actions they necessitate further my goals quite nicely. And in a battle such as this one, it is not the maneuverings of each soldier that matter as much as which army is triumphant.

It would not be prudent for me to share the exact document that summoned these musings, as much as I wish I could spread the mirth for all. Laughter, as you well know, is said to be healthy, and I regret that I must withhold such medicine from you, my loyal readers. But I decided I would share these thoughts, as a sort of commemoration of my long-term relationship with words. They have been enemies, they have been friends. They have been whispers on a wind, and screams into an abyss. Sometimes they are my weapons, and sometimes my defense. And, on days like today, it is with joy that I behold the useful tools they have become.

I Can't Stand It: I Have To Share

noreply@blogger.com (amy) — Mon, 28 Jan 2008 05:13:00 +0000

It's time for some gratuitously cute photos.

I got a new camera for Christmas, and it has made me into a MUCH BETTER photographer. I love it. I took it to the pool yesterday, and managed a few photos before the battery ran flat (for the first time, I should mention). At this time in my pregnancy (seven weeks to go), I should be doing all sorts of nesting things, but a very low ferritin level is keeping me exhausted. However, I woke up this morning with a SUDDEN AND MASSIVE URGE TO NEST. RIGHT NOW.

For the last couple of months, I've been knitting like crazy, since I've been so tired, and unable to do much else. When I was eight months pregnant with Oliver, I built him a bed. But I don't have any power tools here, which is just as well, what with the heat and my exhaustion, so I've been knitting. During the first trimester, morning sickness made me feel like I was carsick if I watched the needles, and since I need to watch the needles, I couldn't knit without wanting to puke, so I've been trying to make up for lost time.

However, today it's no longer enough. So this morning, I dragged a cupboard into the bedroom for baby's things, wiped it down, arranged the baby things we have (and that I bought last week, but Mom, don't worry, the cupboard isn't even a third full), and now am frantically searching for patterns to knit. I can't decide if Ravelry is my saviour, or just feeding my obsession. Either way, it's the Best Thing Ever.

But what has prompted this sudden determination to organize, clean and tidy all baby's things?? I even decanted some moisturizer into a little travel bottle to put into my new Crabtree & Evelyn toiletry bag. I haven't washed any of baby's clothes yet, because it's been too early, and there are still seven weeks to go, but suddenly the urge is upon me.

And with that cleaning/organizing urge is an irresistible compulsion to knit ALL MY YARN. EVERY SINGLE METER OF IT, which could, conceivably, take about seven years, even staying up until 3 am every night as I have been.

Whoa. The rambling. It's the panic talking. Duncan got rid of most of our baby clothes a year or so ago. I said, "But what if we have another baby?" And he said, "You'll buy more stuff." You know Duncan, right? Clearly he didn't think that through entirely. But I haven't bought too much, and today I went through the box of clothes we still have, and... there's NOTHING FOR NEWBORNS IN THERE.

OMG, the PANIC. And there's no shopping here (okay, a Target Country, but what's the point of THAT?). The day trip to Perth last week nearly did me in, but I think I'm going to have to plan another trip because THERE'S NO SHOPPING HERE and THERE'S NOTHING FOR NEWBORNS IN THAT BOX.

I'm going to hyperventilate in a minute.

But I digress. My thought processes are scrambled by hormones and heat. Please forgive me. Onto the photos.

Oliver, who a week ago loved the water, but did not want to be horizontal in it, even with support, has taught himself, seemingly in one day, how to do the crawl:

... and how to dive:

Now, if only Duncan had shaken the center part from his hair (and let me pick out his swim shirt), that photo would be PERFECT. Duncan says he'd like to be airbrushed out, so Oliver looks like he's just coming in for a water landing.

And this one, well, this one is stressful on my pregnant hormones. I think it's the shadow of his toes that pushes me over the edge:

I'm definitely getting that one blown up to poster size.

Worst Case Scenario

noreply@blogger.com (amy) — Thu, 10 Jan 2008 13:45:00 +0000

Okay. Yesterday was stressful.

We've been waiting more than six years for this test. Leander was diagnosed with allergies more than six years ago, when he was ten months old. Most children outgrow their egg allergy by the age of (depending on where you get your information) three or five. Leander is seven. Children who outgrow their egg allergy often still show a positive blood test, so the only way to know if they have outgrown it is to perform a challenge.

On my way to pick up Ouma (the hospital prefers that the parent of a food challenge child (a food challenger?) not have other children in tow to look after), I had a silent conversation with myself in the car.

What are you expecting today?
I just want to get it over with, I said. We've waited for this for six years.
But what do you think is going to happen?
Hopefully, he'll have no reaction. In which case, I'm going to go home and bake a loaf of zucchini bread. WITH EGG. Because it is SO hard to bake without eggs.
But what if he has a reaction? What do you think is going to happen?
Okay, okay, okay. Stop nagging. Maybe he'll have a rash, and I'll keep using baking soda and vinegar in the zucchini bread, and it won't rise, and that's fine. Maybe next year. Now shut up and go away.

Those are the only two possible outcomes I imagined. Leander hasn't had any reactions to egg. Most kids outgrow the egg allergy. His blood test results are low. He's well over the age he should outgrow the allergy. So we test him.

We checked in, and asked how long the process was expected to take. Ouma took Eddie and Oliver and a bag of snacks to the park, with instructions to return in two hours.

The challenge started a little late; they were very busy. All eight chairs in the room were full, some with children having food challenges, and some with children having other treatments. Curiosity nearly kills me in those situations, but it’s none of my business why the small boy has hugely swollen forearms and hands, or why the teenager with the friendly, pleasant expression is such a terrible greenish color.

A lovely nurse (they were all lovely. Nurses are so often lovely) introduced herself and explained the procedure. Then she checked Leander all over for any rashes or marks that he might have before the challenge, so she would be aware of any changes. Leander is a boy, and has two brothers. Ergo, he has marks.

She indicated that the stuff they were going to give him might be yucky. She said they usually mix it with some juice, but CSID means Leander can't have juice.

"He'll be fine," I said. "His name means 'brave man,' and he is."

"Well," she said. "We'll see how that pans out for you today, then, won't we?"

First on the menu was a 5 ml dilution of egg in water, in the ratio of 1 to 100. She gave this to Leander in a syringe, so as to shoot it down his throat a little faster (imagine warm tap water with a bit of egg in it. Yuck doesn't quite describe it.) Wait ten minutes, do observations. We made an origami sperm whale, following directions in an activity book I brought.

Leander had no reaction, so about ten minutes later, she proceeded to step two: a 1 to 10 dilution of egg to water, again 5 mls. The kid next to us left, and the nurse gave us the entertainment center he'd been using. We worked out how to race cars on the Nintendo, and ten minutes later, observations showed no reaction.

Step three is a bit of a jump: 5 mls of raw egg. Yup, icky. But Leander swallowed it like a champ, followed it with a sip of water and a couple of Pringles, and grabbed up the Nintendo controls again. Ouma arrived back with Eddie and Oliver. I stepped into the hallway, about twelve feet away, in full view of Leander (all glass windows and walls, and open doorways) to tell them that the challenge had started a little bit late, and that Leander would be at least another hour. Eddie slipped inside to have a go at the Nintendo, while I chatted with Ouma.

Leander put down his controls (should have been my first hint), got off the cushy recliner, and came to me. He looked absolutely fine, but he said, “Mommy, my chest feels icky.”

Okay. Okay, that’s okay. I think I excused myself from Ouma, but I may have just rudely left. I’m not sure. There weren’t any nurses in the room just then, so I went through to the back room, and said, “Excuse me? Leander says his chest feels icky.”

One of them followed (the lovely nurse who started the challenge had gone off to lunch a little while before), and I persuaded Eddie (with a little bit of pleasantness, and a little bit of a growl) to put down the Nintendo, and go with Ouma. Ouma’s very good at the quiet, quick fade, and she whisked the children back to the park.

Leander looked fine, though he still said his chest felt icky. No, he wasn’t going to throw up. No, he wasn’t having trouble breathing. But his chest still felt icky. Did he feel better, worse, or the same? The same.

But, and this is the most frightening part of all, and should have been our biggest clue: he didn’t want to play Nintendo, and he didn’t want me to put a movie on.

The nurse checked his chest for a telltale rash (he’s never gotten one there, but it’s a major sign of anaphylaxis). Nothing. No rashes on the insides of his elbows, no swelling of his lips, and he still said he wasn’t going to throw up. Better, worse, or the same? The same.

I kept looking at his eyes. They were exactly the same, but... not quite. They weren't (quite) a slight shade of purple. They weren't (quite) swollen at all. They didn't (quite) look a little dark underneath. There wasn't anything there I could point to. He looked exactly the same. Almost.

And then there was a tiny little red mark under his right eye, and he scratched it.

Better, worse, or the same? The same.

And then a small cough, just twice, almost like a clearing of the throat.

The changes after that were so tiny, it was difficult to see them. In fact, the nurses weren’t watching him; one of them decided he might need his inhaler for the cough, and went to phone a doctor for an order. Little tears began to drip from Leander’s eyes, and he asked for a tissue to blow his nose. I stopped going back and forth to the tissue box, and brought it to the chair. I needed more of them for me than for him. If I wasn’t pregnant, I would have been able to stop crying, but as it was, I couldn't. Better, worse, or the same? The same.

I got the order for four puffs of Ventolin, to be given at once, and since I had the inhaler and spacer ready, we did that immediately, Leander taking calm, deep breaths just like he's supposed to. With no effect. Those two little coughs were now coming every five or ten seconds (I’m guessing; time loses a lot of perspective in situations like this). Better, worse or the same? The same.

Another few minutes of coughing, more tears, no other changes: no rash, no swelling. And then... better worse or the same? “Worse.” Did he feel like he might throw up? Yes.

Now, I'm good with all sorts of medical emergencies: bleeding, fainting, injury, needles, whatever. Vomit, however, is not my bag. I ran back to where the nurses were, and, trying to choke words through the tears, said, “Something to throw up in!” What? “Throw up! Bucket! Something!”

I went back to Leander, too aware that the other seven parent/child combinations in the room were picking up on the change in atmosphere very quickly. I felt terrible for the woman next to us, whose very small child had just begun an egg challenge. She spoke almost no English, and must have been terrified at what she was witnessing.

The nurse comes with a disposable bowl-thing, and Leander holds it under his chin. I watch tears fall into it. Another nurse brings an antihistamine, having called the doctor for that order as well. I hold the little plastic cup and Leander gulps it down. It has no effect.

Next thing I realize, there's a half-circle of medical personnel around us. The doctor has arrived (not our doctor, but the fellow, who, I believe, handles all the decisions that arise during these challenges), and stands there with a clipboard. She says, “I can’t order adrenaline at this point.” No swelling, the cough is the same, no rash.

But they all stand there, watching. Leander is crying now, and he says to me, “I want to feel better. I want to feel better!” All those tiny little changes mean that now he's a little purplish around the edges, with a leaky nose and leaky eyes, a slight cough, and a slumped posture.

It's like watching time-lapse photography of a sunflower losing its glory. You don't see it happen as the minutes pass, and then you notice that the color has faded, and the petals have drooped.

Somewhere in there, I look up and see the doctor, literally, drop her jaw as Leander’s oxygen saturation falls to 92%. I refocus on Leander, who says to me, “I want the epi-pen!”

Who would ask for something like that? He’s had adrenaline once before, and it HURTS.

The doctor is next to me now, and I say to her, far more calmly and clearly than I feel, “He’s asking for the epi-pen. I’m not saying you should give it to him just because he’s asking for it, but you should know that he is seriously distressed right now.” A long speech, considering all the hormones welling up in my throat.

She says to me, and she's really listening, “Is he distressed?”

Some of you know Leander, and some of you don’t. Stoic doesn’t begin to describe him. I think if he broke his arm, he’d give a little shake, and insist he was fine (unless Eddie did it to him, in which case he’d scream bloody murder).

I say, “He is a very calm child. Believe me when I tell you he does not react like this. This is him, severely distressed.” I am not the expert, but somebody had better do something SOON. Or else. Or else I might have to actually say out loud what is screaming silently in my head: DO SOMETHING. DO IT.

The cough is just slightly more persistent now, and Leander is more visibly - to me - panicking. This. Is. Not. Right. Things are very definitely - but so very imperceptibly - wrong.

The doctor's lips move very slowly as she says, “Administer adrenaline.”

A nurse has already gotten the epi-pen. Someone says to me, “Do you want to do it?”

I can’t talk at all. I can’t speak. I can’t explain that I've had six years of nightmares about giving him that shot, that I've done it in a million dreams, asleep and awake. That I have, in my head, held that little thigh and plunged in the needle over and over and over, but that I have a terrible block about doing it in real life. That my hugest fear is that I will need to do it, but will be unable to.

It’s not the needle-into-flesh aspect that terrifies me; it’s the fact that my little boy is so close to death, and I need to save his life. Why do I have such a block on that? Isn't that the thing any mother would most want to do? Save her child's life? Why is it so hard? Is it because I so strongly do not want that situation to occur that if I refuse to accept it, it won't be happening?

I nod. Someone asks again, “Do you want to do it?”

“Yes,” I say. “Yes.”

Then the needle is in my hand, open and with the safety removed.

I look straight at Leander. “I’m going to do it, okay?” I say. He nods. “It’s going to hurt,” I tell him. He nods.

Needle in my right hand, I push his shorts out of the way with my left hand. That perfect, soft skin is no accident. Years of diligence and effort made that skin perfect. For the six years I've been fearing this moment, in the second or two it takes my hand to slip up his thigh, it changes from the soft, tiny leg I've practiced on in my head to the strong, long thigh he has spent years developing.

In my head, like I’ve done a million times before, I imagine the line from his kneecap to his hip, and the perpendicular line bisecting it, but I am distracted by the perfect planes of his muscles. Who am I kidding? I know exactly where that needle goes. I could find the spot with my eyes closed.

I put my left index finger on the upper, outer quadrant of his thigh, chanting in my head upper, outer, like I have a million times before. I look up at the woman standing in front of me. She looks blankly at me. I tap my finger, and she nods.

Do I plunge? Or do I place and push firmly? I have held that debate for years, with no resolution. I feel me take hold of myself and make the decision. Slowly, calmly, I place the needle gently on his thigh, I grip his thigh firmly with my left hand so he can’t flinch, and I PUSH.

All there is in the universe is that smooth, hard thigh under my fingers, the firm steady pressure of the needle, and a slow, calm voice in my head counting, “One... two... three...”

But I only get to four, and the same woman who blanked me on the location is pushing my wrist away from his thigh. I hold firm, the needle doesn't waver, and I look up at her. She pushes my wrist again, harder, so I obey, and pull out the needle, and it disappears from my hand.

I hold Leander tight against me. He’d cried out when I pushed the needle in; I could hear the echo of it now that the needle was gone. He was crying still, saying again, “I want to feel better! I want to feel better!”

“You will, baby, you will." I'm holding him tightly. "It takes just a minute." I'm wiping his eyes, wiping my eyes. "Just hold on a minute.” And while I was still talking, I could hear a voice in the semi-circle say, “That worked. Look at his pulse now - 162.”

And finally the tiniest of shifts, and the panic in Leander's cries slips away. Another voice says, “There it is.”

"I am so sorry, baby," I whisper into his ear.

"Thank you for doing it," he says back to me.

And it's over. Observations were done every minute, then every five minutes, then he picked up the Nintendo and only hit pause every fifteen minutes for his blood pressure, pulse and oxygen levels. He had to wait four hours to be sure he didn't have a rebound reaction, and then, when everyone else had packed up and gone, we were allowed to leave.

During that long wait, I took Oliver to his appointment at the allergist (whose offices are across the street). He tells me, immediately, that I deserve a G&T, or, at the very least, to put my feet up for a while. The doctor who ordered the adrenaline told him I did a great job, that Leander and I were both very brave, that because of us, he's going to review with all staff and make it a priority to have the parent administer the epi-pen. I am empowered. I have DONE IT.

He apologizes for anaphylaxing my child (he makes it a verb, and it works for him). But it's not his fault, it was a risk, the test had to be done, and I don't blame him one bit. I appreciate his compassion. He tells me they administer adrenaline about once a month. This is intended as comfort, but I am appalled that Leander is one of the tiny few.

He performs a skin prick test on Oliver, on the basis that, at the age of four and a half, Oliver would have had some accidental exposure to peanut and egg (why do people persist in underestimating me? No accidental exposure is allowed in my world). I think he is unwilling to subject me to another challenge in three weeks, which is what he told us, more than a year ago, we would do with Oliver. Both skin tests are negative, and we have no reason to believe Oliver has any allergies. The test has only been done because the school has given us such problems, and we need to know where we stand before Oliver starts going. The doctor, who got us through the last hassle with the school, tells me that if we have any further troubles, a letter to the Minister will do the trick. He gives me instructions for working out Eddie's reactions to fish, and the name of an allergist for Duncan's bee stings, and he confirms that I should have held the needle in till the count of ten (surmising that perhaps that woman had counted VERY quickly), and we're done. We will see him again in two years.

My sister-in-law arrives to pick up Eddie, Oliver and Ouma (who has been sitting with Leander while I was at the allergist), and I sit with Leander and the Nintendo to wait out the rest of the four hours.

We did it, my little boy and I. He told me he needed to be saved, and I saved him. And I don't care how it sounds for me to say it: I am damn proud of us both.

Anatomy, Evolution and Creationism, According to Oliver

noreply@blogger.com (amy) — Thu, 06 Dec 2007 13:39:00 +0000

Yesterday morning, as I was drying off after a shower, Oliver stood in the bathroom waiting for my attendance on some important matter (I forget what - possibly getting him a lemon rocket from the freezer? More about the new ice cream maker later, when I'm ready to post some recipes. And did you know? A lemon rocket works just as well as medicine at curing a sore tummy. More placebo, anyone?).

We're having another one of the endless, unavoidable conversations that define Oliver's very essence. And after exclaiming about bits of my anatomy that are "HUGE, Mommy!" (and not just huge, either, but "HUMONGOUS, Mommy!"), he segues smoothly into:

"Mommy, why don't you have a winkie?"

Okay. We've had this conversation before. He understands about boys and girls, but the somewhat disturbing revelation a few weeks ago that certain stereotypes are fixed in his little brain means, maybe, that we need to have this conversation again.

"Because girls don't have winkies."

No pause whatsoever: "Do you just wee out your bum?"

Okay. Fair enough. Given his limited four-year-old knowledge of anatomy, this is not an unreasonable assumption. Better go for a little straight talking here.

"No, I poop out my bum, just like you. I wee out a different spot, just like you, only it's not a winkie, it's a little hole."

There is a reason I'm not a urologist.

"Oh. Did they not put a winkie on you because they were building a girl?"

Whoa, cowboy. They? I should point out here that Oliver has had exactly zero exposure to any sort of religion. Nor have we had any dinner discussions about evolution. Or aliens, for that matter. Who are these "they" in his head who are BUILDING PEOPLE? And are they hiring? Because I have a friend who is looking for more challenging employment. Or do you suppose building people is a monotonous, low-skill job? Are there any qualifications necessary, or do they offer on-the-job training? Is there a middle management level? Because I'm thinking that the position of Quality Control Engineer has been vacant for, oh, ever. Think about it: have you ever seen a baby with one of those "Inspected by #26" stickers? And how many mistakes do they let through? Will they be issuing any kind of a recall program? Or is the whole manufacturing process still in a beta phase?

But it's too early in the morning for me to manage anything more difficult than the wee/bum question, so I steady myself on the towel bar to stop the spinning in my brain, and I answer, simply, "Yes."

"Oh," he says, not missing a beat. "Then I wonder why they gave Ouma short hair?"

...

...

... And that moment right there? That's where you surrender completely, and offer all manner of riches and power, just so you no longer have to face the inner workings of that mind.

Which is, I think, how our president got elected.

Stuck With The Turkeys

noreply@blogger.com (amy) — Thu, 22 Nov 2007 01:10:00 +0000

It's Thanksgiving, a day that always makes me sad when I'm out of the country. I just heard a radio DJ say it's okay to eat any food you see today, to cram yourself full of any old crap, and if anyone says anything to you, you should just tell them, "It's okay! It's Thanksgiving! The Americans are doing it!"

Foreigners just don't get it.

I feel really strongly about Thanksgiving, and when the atmosphere is missing, it leaves a horrible void. It's a day to spend with as much family as possible, no matter how dysfunctional that family might be. When I was growing up, we often spent the day with my father's first family, which meant a bizarre combination of me, my mom, my dad, his first wife, their children, and their children's children, most of whom were older than me, and who started bringing their own kids as they had them (my father's great-grandchildren - I was in my teens). We'd all gather in the fire station across the road from my half-sister's house, and the chaos in there was awesome (by which I mean "awe-inspiring" as opposed to "rad, dude.") As an only child (in my father's second family, if that makes any sense), I was usually lonely, and life was very quiet. Claiming all that color as my family - albeit slightly DISTANT family, and just once or twice a year - added facets to my otherwise boring person, I felt. It was like being the baffled participating audience member in an intricately choreographed dance.

(My half-sister has probably spewed coffee across her screen by now. I somehow feel sure that my memories of those occasions have a slightly rosier glow than hers...)

For my first Thanksgiving in South Africa, my husband's family very gamely went along with a "proper" Thanksgiving meal. Their enthusiasm touched me (and still does, eleven years later), but there's something about having everybody working on a day that should be a massive holiday for everyone, regardless of race, religion, or personal beliefs, that's just not right. It's the atmosphere that's missing.

I think one thing that a lot of foreigners don't understand is that Americans are proud, yes, and we work hard to be the best we can be, but that we judge ourselves against ourselves, nobody else. Being proud of who we are doesn't mean we think less of anyone else. We just don't think in terms like that. It's not a competition for us, so nobody wins and nobody loses. We're far from perfect, but we keep working to get there. I can't seem to adequately explain that here.

Anyway, I'm going to make a pumpkin pie today. I normally wouldn't ever use canned pumpkin for this - I always roast my own - but since the right kind of pumpkin isn't available, I'll open one of the huge cans of pumpkin puree that I brought here with me.

A friend told me yesterday that Martha has been baking up a storm all week (I'm still cross with her about the Katonah incident). My friend says Martha drains her pumpkin puree in cheesecloth overnight. I see the point of that: to thicken it. But I've always preferred the flavor and texture of moist, fresh pumpkin. If it's too thick, it'll taste like the canned stuff I'm being forced to use.

I've never made a pumpkin pie with fructose, though I think it will be okay. The thing about fructose is, it's not sweet when it's warm, only when it's cool. So I'll cook the pie, and then have to let it cool completely before eating it, which is a shame, since it's so delicious warm. Of course, it's delicious cold the next day, too. Actually, I could screw up the recipe a fair bit, and it'd still be great. Pumpkin pie just is.

This is my egg-free recipe, which I've been using for years. The original recipe, from The Joy of Cooking, makes an amazing pumpkin custard, but eggs are still off-limits, and the cornstarch works. I might have to play around with the sweetness of the pie, since these amounts of fructose and Karo are guesses. I like to use Karo when I can, since Leander has a high tolerance for it (Karo is basically high-fructose corn syrup), and it adds some of the gooey texture you'd get from real sugar, particularly if you're trying to use dextrose as a substitute for sugar. With fructose, maybe I don't really need the Karo, but I'm going to use it anyway, particularly since I've substituted the eggs with cornstarch. I might decide later that I should have used dextrose instead of the Karo, but we'll have to wait and see.

I won't bother making my own pie crust this year. Homemade crust is delicious, but I find it's rarely worth the effort. Locally, there's a "savoury" frozen crust. You could probably use the sweet one, but it's got sugar in it, and the savory frozen one they sell here has a crunchy texture that is really very nice.

If you use real cornstarch, and not the kind made with wheat, and a gluten-free crust, this pie would be gluten-free. Also, I'm sure the milk and butter could be substituted for a dairy-free pie. I'd never do that, since we don't need to avoid dairy, and I think the real milk and butter add a necessary richness, but basically, you could adjust this recipe for a lot of different dietary restrictions.

Here it is:

Sucrose-free, egg-free, nut-free pumpkin pie:

2 cups cooked, pureed pumpkin
1 cup milk
3/4 cup fructose
1/4 cup Karo light syrup
1/4 cup cornstarch
1/2 tsp cinnamon
1/4 tsp nutmeg
1 tbsp butter, melted

Mix all, pour into unbaked pie crust.
Let sit in refrigerator overnight before baking, if possible.
Bake at 450 for 10 minutes. Reduce heat to 350 and bake one hour.
Allow to cool mostly before serving, though it's nice warm.

Serve it with fresh whipped cream, which I make. Fructose added to freshly whipped cream is absolutely delicious. In fact, I'd probably choose to use fructose even if I could use regular sugar.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Recipe: Grandpa Ed's Waffles

noreply@blogger.com (amy) — Sat, 17 Nov 2007 12:09:00 +0000

As I mentioned, Leander and I both went to the doctor on Tuesday. My appointment was great: we heard the baby's heartbeat, even though the doctor said it was a bit early and he wasn't sure if we would, and it was a "nice, strong heartbeat." Also cool was the fact that I still haven't gained any weight. At 21 weeks pregnant, I am nine pounds lighter than I was at five weeks pregnant. I'm only losing the weight I gained during Oliver's pregnancy, and the doctor is completely happy with the state of my health.

Leander and I both needed blood tests. Mine was to check up on a previously low iron level, and Leander's were for everything but the prostate screening, I think. We're a little concerned that with his limited diet, he might be missing some nutrients. It's been two years since he was diagnosed with CSID, and he's been a little tired lately, not quite himself. Also, fructose can build up in the liver like alcohol, and since that's the sugar he uses every day, it's a good idea to have a liver function test done.

Our tradition is that if you get a needle stuck in you, Mommy buys you something at the toy tore, mostly because Mommy is a sucker. Because Leander is the one who always gets the horrible things done to him, he's the one who gets all the treats. The other two understand this, though they would like to get the treats, too. They agree, though, that it's not worth getting poked with a needle.

But Leander said, this time, "Can we buy three treats, so Eddie and Oliver can have one, too?"

Which opens up all sorts of philosophical avenues.

If they all get treats, it kind of defeats the point of the treat. And will the other two start hoping Leander gets poked with a needle so they can have a new little tractor?

But Leander himself has requested equal treats for his brothers, and I hate to discourage that kind of philanthropic spirit.

What to do?

We've been talking about buying an ice cream machine, because ice cream is one of the boys' favorite things, and there's a place in Hilarys that makes one with fructose (for diabetics, which I don't quite understand, but I'm no dietitian). But it's $12 a liter, and it's made with soy milk, to cover lots of dietary requirements. I'm not so big on the soy milk. Also, it's hard for us to get, being in Hilarys and all. So after a month or two of batting the idea around, I made the executive decision to order the ice cream maker. Wandering around the appliance store while the guy was on the phone with another customer, I passed a waffle maker, one that makes a flower of five hearts. My dad gave me one like that for my birthday one year. I've never understood why he bought me a waffle maker, but he picked it out all by himself, and maybe I liked it even more because of the mystery. I couldn't bring it to Australia because of the power thing, and it's one of the few bits we left behind that I really miss.

That was way too much detail about why I wanted a waffle maker all of a sudden.

Anyway, the boys love pancakes, the American way, that is: for breakfast, hot, with maple syrup and bacon on a lazy Sunday morning. So I asked Leander if we should get a waffle maker for everyone as the treat. He happily agreed. We had waffles for dinner that night, but the waffle recipe in the waffle maker box was a bit floppy, not crispy like I like them.

Today, nearly eleven years after my dad died, I cried all the way back from the next town over. I think it was triggered by extreme exhaustion, and thinking of the daughter of the electrician I like so much. I saw her yesterday, and the obvious affection with which she spoke of her father made my eyes leak, though I blamed it on pregnancy hormones to cover my embarrassment. My dad was an electrician, too, and I miss him just as much now as I have for the last eleven years.

On that half-hour drive today, it occurred to me, for the first time, that my father must have thought, at some point in his life, about the fact that he would be 87 when I was 37, and that the odds of him knowing me for much more than thirty years were pretty slim.

That makes me incredibly sad.

So in honor of my father, who I think about every day, we're having waffles again tomorrow morning, and here's my own recipe in all its nut-free, egg-free, sucrose-free glory:

2 cups flour
4 tbsp dextrose
1 tsp baking soda
1 tbsp lemon juice
1¾ cups milk
4 tbsp melted butter
a dollop of glucose

Melt butter, milk and glucose together. I'm not listing a measurement for glucose, because you could spend a LOT of time trying to get it to cooperate while you try to measure it. Be sure to melt it, though, since otherwise you'll have a lot of semi-sweet waffles, and one glucose-waffle.

Sift dry ingredients.

Add butter, milk and lemon juice to dry ingredients and mix well. Allow to rest for ten minutes.

Pour by 1/4 cupfuls onto medium hot waffle maker and cook until nicely brown. Serve with real maple syrup for the people who can handle sucrose, and with Karo syrup for the people who can't.

Stay tuned for an ice cream recipe, though there will no doubt be a fair bit of trial and error involved in that one...

It's Like I'm Famous!

noreply@blogger.com (amy) — Wed, 14 Nov 2007 10:40:00 +0000

So I've been just typing away at my little blog, entertaining my friends and family overseas. I forget to post a lot, and then a friend emails me and says, "Hey, post!" so I do.

And all this time, I've had FANS! There are whole bunches of people who find the trivia in my life so fascinating that they are eagerly checking to see if I have a new post! Oh, it's water-cooler time, for sure!

I'm flattered that you all find me so interesting!

Anyhoo... Since I have your attention:

All that crap you're hearing? All those rumors? Seriously. One of my faults is that I always think the best of people, even people who truly don't deserve it. It's especially sad for me, since, because of that, I'm so frequently disappointed by people. I have to say, it surprises me how many of you are willing to think the worst of me at a moment's notice. Would I seriously say nasty things about people on a blog that (in spite of an anonymous accusation that I am "hiding behind" my blog - that irony is too precious to NOT share it with you) can be read by every single English-reading person with internet access In The Entire World? Yeah, and I also demanded a 200 meter peanut-free perimeter zone around both the school and my shop last year, making it impossible for any shop in town to sell peanut products, and impossible for any travelers to drive through town if there was so much as a Snickers in their car.

People, I couldn't come up with that kind of crap if I tried. The person who did should be applauded for her creativity and imagination. And then be made to immediately begin using her talents for good, rather than evil.

Ditto the "nasty" comments. Is it nasty to tell you that I cried? Is it nasty to tell you that we got a lot of phone calls?

Yeah. I don't think so. But if you all keep chattering away about it amongst each other, pretty soon you'll have me drowning puppies and plotting against the government. Trust me when I tell you that I don't have that kind of free time.

And when I started to hear about all these "nasty" things I supposedly wrote, I was concerned. For about ten minutes. Because as far as I knew, I hadn't written anything nasty. But maybe my perception was off? I've spent the day showing people what I actually wrote - completely unmodified, not a comma changed (I think, if you haven't learned anything else, you should have learned by now that I am nothing if not honest). I've had people laughing, and suggesting that I publish the post in a newspaper, and every single person, without exception, has said that there isn't a nasty word in there. It is, by all accounts, a silly story about a horrible week.

So the person who greeted me with a cat's bum mouth in the bank? Every person is entitled to his or her own opinion, absolutely. It's a human right. I might caution you, however, that if you're basing your opinion on rumors rather than facts, you're only going to make a fool of yourself, not me. How many of you actually read the post, and how many of you just heard other people talking about it?

But hey! As long as you're entertained! Because let's not forget, that's what a blog is all about.

Let's talk about important stuff now. Leander had the beginnings of an anaphylactic attack last week. Wouldn't you find it more interesting and fulfilling to read about our frantic dash to the hospital than to do your laundry? Or to write a letter for Amnesty International? Or to crochet a chemo-cap for a cancer patient? Or to knit a little jumper for those poor African AIDS babies? Or maybe you could make a casserole for a house-bound neighbor or relative? Or clean out your pantry and donate some canned goods to that scheme run by the school's chaplain for Christmas boxes to disadvantaged children? Or just sit on the floor with your own child and a box of crayons and doodle some pages for him or her to color in?

Oh, never mind. You know you're going to just sit there and keep reading this page. Hey, I might mention YOU in here.

At bowls last Thursday night, during the presentations, Leander, outside, started to cry. Not so unusual in itself: a lot of crying gets done in a house full of boys. But he has a special undertone to a cry that I couldn't begin to describe. I can only tell you that when he hits that barely perceptible tone, I pay attention.

He wanted to go to the hospital. Immediately. That's not a request he ever makes, since he has a lot of needles stuck into him a lot of the time. He couldn't tell me what was wrong, and he wasn't showing any symptoms at all, as far as I could tell. But he wanted to go to the hospital, and my strongest belief on this earth is that
a parent needs to provide what a child needs, so that child can learn to identify and provide for his own needs when he grows up. If he wants to go to the hospital, he needs to know that I'll take him seriously, and that he should take his own instincts seriously.

We rushed to the hospital, and I said into the intercom, "Anaphylactic child! Please let us in!" Leander still showed no signs of anaphylaxis, but didn't feel well, and I wasn't taking any chances. His pulse was 136. The nurse (one of my favorites, who remembered me from last year when I brought Duncan in, suffering from serious anaphylactic shock due to a bee sting) was very thorough and attentive. Still no other symptoms, though she agreed that bringing him in and waiting there was the right thing to do. After a while, Leander's pulse dropped to about 100, and he got very sleepy. When we felt safe, we went home.

We saw our doctor yesterday, and he felt strongly that yes, it was the initial stages of anaphylaxis. He said his patients often report a sense of something wrong deep inside before there are any symptoms at all. On the way home from the hospital, Leander said to me that there was a boy at bowls who he didn't know well, and he thought maybe that boy had eaten something that wasn't Leander-safe. I don't think that's true (the boy is the child of a conscientious mother), but I like that Leander himself is trying to speculate the cause of his reaction. He didn't eat anything at bowls other than the ham sandwich I'd made for him (from ingredients he's had many times before). One of the most frustrating things about anaphylaxis is that we can't pinpoint exactly what caused it, and we can't say how close is too close, since testing that line would most likely be fatal. We just have to be glad that he was fine, that our healthy little boy is not in a coma, or worse. Those close calls are exhausting for everyone.

Two percent of children in our state are at risk of anaphylaxis. The Anaphylaxis Expert Working Committee recently discovered that the restrictions on children at risk give them a quality of life lower than children with rheumatoid arthritis or diabetes. Think about that for a minute.

Alan Carpenter recently approved, and committed $6.6 million to, all eight recommendations made by the Anaphylaxis Expert Working Committee. You can read about it here. And I hope a certain principal DOES read about it, and sees that it will be required of him to practice risk management for children at risk of anaphylaxis in schools. That's ALL children at risk - whether it's food, or bees, or whatever, risk management is required, and will be audited.

One of the recommendations is aimed at community awareness. I like to think I've done my part to raise community awareness. There are a lot of really supportive people out there, and now a lot more of them are aware of anaphylaxis. Sadly, the five percent of people who are complete fuckwits about it are usually the only ones who make a lot of noise.

Likewise, at least 90% of what you hear is a lot of crap. Trust me: my life is too boring for you to find it so interesting without a LOT of embellishment.

And while you're listening, let me tell you that I never, ever, not once did I demand that the school do ANYTHING AT ALL to protect Leander. I wrote on Eddie's enrollment form: It is imperative that Eddie not bring home any traces of peanuts because of his brother's severe allergy. The school decided to immediately put into place provisions for a risk management program, in order to protect Leander, who would begin school six months later. I can only fault them for letting people think I had demanded this. The school administration, rightfully, in my opinion, decided that the best thing for THEM, the best way to provide duty of care to ALL students, and to protect their teachers from a situation that could be catastrophic, was to put into place these policies.

Let me say that again: by asking parents not to send in peanut products, the school is not only protecting Leander, but is protecting the teachers and all the other children. When parents send in peanuts, not only are they putting Leander's life at risk, they are increasing the stress levels of the teachers and aides, who would be required to act in an emergency. If the teachers and aides are forced to think about this for a large portion of their day, they are less able to concentrate on their jobs, and less able to concentrate on all children equally.

Do you get that? Risk management helps protect everyone. Would you like your child to witness the horror of a classmate suffering anaphylactic shock? Would you like your child's teacher to be so obsessed with keeping one child alive during lunch times that she can't focus on all the other children in the room? What if it was your child's lunch that caused Leander serious injury? How easy do you think it would be to convince your child that it wasn't his or her fault? Why put your child in that kind of position?

That woman who made her kid bring peanuts to school, in spite of the fact that, as the child herself told me, she doesn't like peanuts? What would she say to her child if her little act of defiance had killed someone?

And I'll tell you what, if I hear ONE MORE TIME that crap about how kids with anaphylaxis "need to learn to live in the world," I might just scream. Kids at risk of anaphylaxis learn more about living in the world in their first five years than other kids do in their first fifteen. There are guns in the world, too. Do children need to learn to live in the world with guns? Should we just plonk a loaded AK-47 down on the kindy lunch table and tell them all not to touch it? A loaded gun is as dangerous to your kid as a peanut butter sandwich is to my kid. The only difference is that the bullet might MISS your kid.

We ARE teaching Leander how to live in the world. We're also teaching YOUR children how to live in the world. Your children are learning tolerance. Something a lot of you could stand to pick up yourselves.

I'm entitled to my bad days. And if I want to tell the world about them (or at least, the few people who are listening, by their own choice), that's my right. It's your right, too. Start your own blog. And if you've read all this and something has made you unhappy, don't complain to me; you've wasted your own time. A last thought: Every time you tell another person about this blog, you give me a little more power. Do you want to do that?

Thanks for listening. I really do, sincerely, appreciate it. Go do something useful now.

I Know What I Said About Dreams, But...

noreply@blogger.com (amy) — Fri, 19 Oct 2007 22:20:00 +0000

Oliver, every single night, says, "Good night, Mommy. Don't let the bugs bite. Have a nice dreams."

And then, in the morning, he says, "Did you have a nice sleep? Did you have a nice dreams?"

I'm 37. Pregnant with my fourth child. Organizing two businesses, one of which is moving in a month. The refrigeration guys alone are enough to give me nightmares. I do NOT have a nice dreams. So I lie, and then ask him about his dreams.

A couple of days ago, he told me about the giraffe in his dreams, the one he climbed uphttp://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gif on and rode away with. I love that dream, and not just because his mixed-up little accent makes him saw "geer-awf." I am totally jealous about that giraffe ride.

A few hours later, though, a previously unremembered dream smacked me upside the head, like they are wont to do. I dreamt that I ate a donut. A floppy, squishy, fresh, sweet, plain old donut. (The fact that I unintentionally spell it like that is a clue). And it didn't even make me sick.

The saddest part is, I am old enough to willfully, in the cold light of day, choose the donut over the giraffe ride.

WHAT?

noreply@blogger.com (amy) — Tue, 28 Aug 2007 14:27:00 +0000

We were talking about the dining table tonight, after the boys left the table. I love the table, but hate the table top (my dad built the whole thing, and the top is covered in - ack - wood-grain formica). I found THE COOLEST formica yesterday while picking out new kitchen counters (because I love-love-love wood, but formica is brilliant for durability), but one sheet of it, which is what I'd need to re-cover the table, would be $350. (Man, I can really make a story unnecessarily long when I talk about furniture).

And for $350, we could probably have the carpenter (the one building the kitchen) build a new hardwood top for the table. The base is solid brass, from the Titan nuclear missile guidance system, built by AMF, because my dad was an engineer on that project and even had his finger on The Button during the Cuban Missile Crisis - how could I *not* love that table?

The top is attached to the base by a heavy - very, very heavy - brass fitting that screws onto the bottom of the table top. There were two table tops - the round one we have and a larger, oval one - but the oval one went "missing" when we moved to Australia, along with about a third of the rest of our furniture. I'm just grateful that the top that we still have is the one the fitting was attached to at the time.

So if we had a new top built, we'd have the beauty of real wood, and it could be just a bit larger.

But I like the table as it is, a bit small, because we're all comfortably close (it's round, and has a pedestal base, so it doesn't get in anybody's leg space). And Duncan said, "Yeah, but we need to fit five children at the table."

FIVE???

1) Why Stop At Three When We Could Go For A Whole Back Line

noreply@blogger.com (amy) — Thu, 16 Aug 2007 12:21:00 +0000

2) Old Navy has all these cool maternity clothes; it's a whole section of shopping I've been missing out on.

3) My favorite half-sister has been complaining that I don't blog often enough, and I needed something else to talk about.

4) Tiffany makes a rattle we don't have. Actually, they make two. Did I say two? I meant three.

5) We have to eat all the meat that hasn't sold, and some days we could use another mouth (and stomach) to help.

6) Because we already have a plumber, a builder, and an electrician, but we need a butcher as well so we can retire into that fancy house.

7) When I had Oliver, I asked the doctor to check on the state of my uterus. He said it was fine, and to "keep havin' em." So really I'm just following doctor's orders.

8) With the two business, three children, two dogs, and all the school sports, etc, etc, I still find myself with some free hours between midnight and four a.m., and thought I'd like something to keep me busy then.

9) We've had them on the other two continents on which we lived. Of course, it might be hard to follow this tradition when we retire to Ireland.

10) We now live in a country that will pay us for it. How could we not take advantage of that? Really, it's just the financially responsible thing to do.

Is It Still Only August?

noreply@blogger.com (amy) — Fri, 10 Aug 2007 09:47:00 +0000

That episode with Malcolm took about ten years off my life. How long is this year, anyway? I am totally done with 2007. Wake me up in January.

Because Fintan Needs A Birthday Cake

noreply@blogger.com (amy) — Thu, 02 Aug 2007 03:30:00 +0000

My friend Alina wants to make a low-allergen, healthy birthday cake for her son's first birthday. He doesn't have any allergies that they are aware of, but I may have freaked her out enough with my horror stories about our experiences over the last several years... so she's being really careful. And if I'm honest, which I can't always be, because people don't REALLY want honesty when it's inconvenient, I wish all parents were like Alina. It can prevent your child from having lifelong, life-threatening allergies, if you just hold off feeding them the seven major allergens until they reach the age of three, when their little immune systems may have matured to the point where they are able to react properly to the allergens, even if they might otherwise have been prone to allergies.

And now I'm off on my little lecture. Just one more minute: Obviously, it's hard (if not impossible) to avoid all seven allergens for three years. Avoid them for the first year, and then avoid the ones in your family history, which for us means eggs and nuts, until the child is three. And of course, it's also important to avoid eating these allergens if you are pregnant or breastfeeding and the baby has a family history of allergies.

And don't complain to me that it's hard, because I've done it. It's not that hard, people. Not nearly as hard as imagining yourself plunging a huge, scary Epi-pen into your baby's sweet little thigh while he chokes and gasps for breath and clings desperately to life.

Right! Enough drama; onto important things, like chocolate!

This recipe is some sort of wartime, rationing recipe. In fact, I used to make it all the time even before we had children (before I even knew that egg *was* an allergen), because it was cheap (and ingredients in South Africa were expensive), ridiculously easy, and really moist and delicious. The only major allergen it contains is wheat, and by the time your child is one, you usually know if he's had a reaction to wheat (and you could substitute the flour with whatever flour substitute you usually use). The recipe is dairy-free, egg-free, nut-free, and effort-free. You don't even need a mixer.

1½ cups flour
1 cup sugar
1 tsp baking soda
¼ cup cocoa powder
½ tsp salt
1 tsp vanilla
1 tbsp vinegar (white)
½ cup oil (I use canola)
1 cup water

Mix all ingredients together in a bowl, in no particular order, and bake at 375 (or 180 C) for 35-40 minutes. I have three kids and a husband, so I always double the recipe and bake it for 40-45 minutes. As it's written above, it will fill an 8x8 baking dish. Use an 8x13 if you double the recipe.

We modify the recipe further to suit our specific dietary needs, by which I mean we use alternative sugars, and we add dairy to it (because my children and husband all have a tendency to lose weight, damn them).

So I use dextrose instead of sugar (dextrose can usually be found in the home brewing supplies), and half again as much glucose syrup (which can be found in the candy-making supplies). And I use some percentage of milk instead of water (half and half, usually). I also replace some of the oil with melted butter (never margarine). Those substitutions took a lot of fiddling with (the sugar ones, that is), but I have finally managed to bake a moist cake with just the right amount of sweetness, and it's incredible how satisfying that is.

I make a frosting with Nuttelex (which, surprisingly, contains no nuts - it's a margarine), cream cheese, dextrose, fructose, and food coloring. But before we knew about the CSID, we just bought Betty Crocker's ready-made frosting. For a one-year-old, frosting is completely unnecessary, though it does add value to the photo opportunities, particularly if it's inhttp://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gif the hair. You could just apply it directly there to save your child's teeth.

Happy Birthday, Fintan!

You Know You Need One

noreply@blogger.com (amy) — Sat, 28 Jul 2007 15:03:00 +0000

Why do you people inspire the worst in me?

For You Rugby Readers

noreply@blogger.com (amy) — Sat, 28 Jul 2007 11:49:00 +0000

I see a few Rutland Roosters have been reading this blog, so I thought I'd give you a brief update. I'm even wearing my Roosters Summer Tour 2003 #10 jersey as I type this.

Duncan has "learned" to play footy, but he can't resist a good tackle, and gets called at least once per game. I'm trying to convince him that his childhood is over (he'll be four-oh this year), and that he should give up the footy. I'm prepared to compromise, though: I've said he can ref rugby until he keels over and I'll never try to stop him. From reffing, that is. Not keeling over.

At today's game, I made a loud, derisive comment about the standard of refereeing. One of the blokes on the sideline gave me a sharp and immediate look. After the game, just before we left, I walked up to the guy and said, "What was that look you gave me when I said the ref was crap?"

He said, "Don't piss off the ref! He's the only one we've got."

So yeah, he's the best one they've got, too, then, isn't he?

Actually, they really do like him. I'd be surprised if you could find anyone on the planet who has a better or deeper understanding of the game, but better than that is the way he tries to even up the game when it's very one-sided. Both teams appreciate it, since it makes for a more interesting game. He's gotten his initial qualification, and the assessors said, "He's got a great future in refereeing."

So I've been planning which five star hotels we'll be staying in when he's reffing the test matches. It's only fair that I get to go with him; it's my reward for all these many years of standing around in the wind, the rain, and the heat watching a bunch of grown men fight over a ball.

And I know you'll appreciate this last note:

Leander is in the shower washing the dirt out of his nooks and crannies (footy all morning, rugby all afternoon; it's like heaven for boys around here), and he's "Making up my own Haka, Mommy, listen!"

Don't talk to me about it, Leander. Tell it to your father.

By Request

noreply@blogger.com (amy) — Fri, 27 Jul 2007 13:23:00 +0000

My fan base has begun! Post more often, you say? Prepare for the rambling!

First of all: good news. Well, good news for us, though I can't really say it's good news for the other kid. The town has a new police sergeant, and though they say he's really good, I say it doesn't matter HOW good if he doesn't stay. There have been two sergeants in the three years I've lived here, and there were long periods of time in between where there wasn't any sergeant at all. And we wonder why the crime is so bad?

But I digress.

The point is that this new sergeant has a son. A son with a nut allergy! Why is that such good news, you ask? Because I think the likelihood of Leander being threatened with physical harm by certain adults in this town, as well as the likelihood of him being further discriminated against by the school principal (or The Wanker, as I prefer to call him) is now greatly reduced.

So, you know, I feel for the child, his family, blah-blah-blah, but just let that bitch try sending peanuts to school NOW.

(For those of you who haven't heard the story a million times already, I'll give you the short version: a six-year-old girl said to me one day, "Mummy packed peanuts in my lunchbox today. I don't like peanuts. Mummy says I don't have to eat them, but I have to bring them to school." Mummy is an ex-military woman who needs a hobby. Something other than pretending we don't exist, and threatening the lives of small children.)

Anyway.

In other good news, also police related, we now know the name of the punk who kicked the crap out of our fence a couple of weeks ago. Because he's a minor, the police weren't allowed to tell us who it was, though they did say they'd charged him. But the laws here are idiotic, and because he's not 18, all they can do is give him a warning. Who's responsible for the damage? Nobody. The police say, "You've got insurance, right?" But I'll be damned if I'm going to pay a deductible and higher premiums because some wingnut dented eight panels of the tin part of our fence.

Especially when the wingnut was enough of an idiot to do this in front of witnesses.

What really pisses us off is that this little bastard and his friends (all little bastards, the lot of them) come into the butcher shop for free meat to use to trap yabbies. And then they destroy our fence? Dude, wrong person to fuck with. I'm not my father's daughter for nothing. Happily for us, we're told that the wingnut's mother would actually be disappointed in him (one of her 13 children) for doing this, so it's possible that we may even get something out of it. Most of the other wingnuts have abusive drug addicts for parents, and visiting them would be completely pointless.

But don't get me started on why they're all such useless idiots. I'd have to carry on at length about welfare, and taking away people's reasons for existing, etc, etc.

In other crime-related news, Duncan and I have volunteered to be on the committee (of five) who will be setting up the new Neighborhood Watch organization in our town. There was an informational meeting last night, where we learned that Kojonup (pop. 2,000) has had 1/3 as many burglaries so far this year as Albany (pop. 30,000). Those are not good ratios. My shop has been broken into twice in just over a year, and now our fence has been vandalized. Speaking of people needing hobbies...

I could go on and on, but I'm not being particularly witty or insightful today, so there's no pointhttp://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gif. I'll leave you with Oliver's comment from a minute ago, when he was reading my email with me, and he saw a woman modeling a knitted shawl:

"She looks very vee-u-tible, and very weird. She's lips look very weird. Your eyes are a bit purplish, Mommy."

(Speaking of my eyes, p.s. to Stephen: You missed my point, clearly. If I am slightly on the Linda Evangelista end of the Linda:Adolph scale, you are slightly on the Brad Pitt end of the Brad:Jabba scale. But only slightly. And I'm still holding firm to the idea that I am, indeed, on the Linda half of that scale, no matter how you insult me by insinuating otherwise.)

Hot, Steamy Tongue Action

noreply@blogger.com (amy) — Thu, 26 Jul 2007 10:00:00 +0000

Three Years, One Month, and Eleven Days

noreply@blogger.com (amy) — Sun, 22 Jul 2007 09:10:00 +0000

That's how long I can live here before I desperately need to GO SOMEWHERE ELSE.

How Cool Will It Be When We Can Add Hyperlinks To Our Speech?

noreply@blogger.com (amy) — Sun, 15 Jul 2007 15:44:00 +0000

Him: Your hair looks cute.
Me: Thanks.
Him: It looks like Adolph Hitler in the front.
Me:
Me:
Me: Did you just compare me to a Nazi? THE Nazi?
Him: The way it goes over to the side like that.
Me: Did you just compare me to a Nazi? With a mustache?
Him: It looks cute.
Me: Maybe Linda Evangelista would have been a nicer comparison?
Him: Who?
Me: I am SO going to blog this.
Him: Aren't you glad I say stuff like that? Otherwise you'd have nothing to blog about.

Can I just say? I do live in reality. But... I sort of picture the scale as something like this:

You go ahead and judge for yourself, though:

Linda

Hitler

Me

I mean, his hair doesn't even go the same way!

Martha, You Are Dead To Me

noreply@blogger.com (amy) — Fri, 13 Jul 2007 06:59:00 +0000

For a new line of furniture, Martha Stewart wants to trademark Katonah, which was named after Chief Katonah. And the TM is already on her website (to which I am specifically not linking).

YOU CAN'T BUY EVERYTHING, MARTHA.

I have gone to the newsagency and canceled my standing order for Living and Weddings. I really have; I'm not just saying that to make the point. Not that I would ever do that.

That should hit her where it hurts. And, okay, if the loss of those two magazine sales doesn't break her right down, just wait until Katonah's done with her. You don't mess with those people, Martha. There isn't a single chain store in that town. If Starbucks can't beat 'em, what do you reckon YOUR chances are, bitch?

Wtf, Martha? WTF?

(Oh, right: it has just occurred to me to mentioned WHY I am so irritated. Katonah is where I come from, right deep down in my soul.)

A Tuesday I Wouldn't Revisit

noreply@blogger.com (amy) — Wed, 11 Jul 2007 12:21:00 +0000

All day Monday, and all Monday night, I dreaded Tuesday, for three reasons:

1) I was scheduled to teach a class in felting a the local old folks' home, and the activities director made me nervous about the old folks.
2) I had a dentist appointment, to see if I had my first-ever cavity.
3) I left Leander, my peanut-anaphylactic child, at an all-day footy clinic without me.

So when it was finally all over and

1) the old folks were a riot, particularly one grumpy woman who complained about everything in between naps,
2) it's not a cavity, just a sensitivity caused by the cold I've had or well over two weeks, and
3) Leander was completely fine

you'd think I'd have been happy. But we got home to find that someone had kicked in several panels of the tin part of our fence. Little bastards. I called the police, because I'm sick to death of these kids getting away with everything, and the girl next door came out to describe the boys she saw doing it. Miracles will never cease. I didn't still didn't expect anything to come of it, since I've been broken into twice, and the cops have done NOTHING, but we heard today that they have arrested someone. They won't tell us who yet, since the kid is a minor, but we'll find out more on Friday, and I think there might be a way to eventually get the kid's family to pay up. We'll see.

But the old folks, they were hysterical (well, I don't think *they* thought they were, but I was highly entertained). We made felted balls, which are ridiculously easy and involve flexing your hands in warm water - good therapy for old joints - for them to use later on in their exercises. Or for pincushions, said the activities director. Yes, but not both simultaneously, I pointed out.

There were a couple of women who actively enjoyed it, and one man who did, too. There were a couple who tried really hard with very little success (limited motion in their hands, or limited sight), and there was that one lady who hated every minute of it and never stopped complaining (in between falling asleep), except to giggle once, which made it all worth it. She was a riot, and I think it would have been a bit dull without her complaining, and another woman rolling her eyes, oh, it was funny. I even told her to stop being so grouchy, and she nearly cracked a smile. Apparently, she hates to have her hands in anything, even hand cream, so she didn't want to stick her hands in the soapy water to do the felting. I threatened her with finger-painting for our next activity.

I've never been to that dentist before. I had the dark protective glasses on, and two little masked Asian faces bent over me, performing a delicately choreographed dance with suction tubes and tooth polishers, talking gently in not-English. It was all very Lost in Translation.

It was a bummer after all that to spend the night feeling violated and powerless. I had to keep reminding myself that we have very sharp knives and an easy way to dispose of bones and meat scraps.

Thank God THAT'S Over

noreply@blogger.com (amy) — Sun, 08 Jul 2007 01:43:00 +0000

Stupidly, we stayed up very, very late last night. Duncan performed his annual dish-washing duties, and I stayed up to finish knitting the back of a turtleneck sweater with the Brown Sheep wool that finally arrived from the States this week. We watched the Live Earth concerts for a while, allowing me to point out, multiple times, how far away from the Red Hot Chili Peppers the audience at Wembley is forced to be, whereas I, much luckier and cleverer than them, stood not more than two feet away from Anthony (six from Flea, who was further back on the plywood table serving as a stage) - and had the stage-bruises on my thighs to prove it - when I saw them on their Mother's Milk tour in the amazing venue/basketball court at SUNY Oswego. Which in turn triggered the realization that they are now in their 40s. Which makes me OLD.

But I digress. The point is, Oliver woke up at a reasonable (for him, completely unreasonable for us) hour this morning and got into bed with us. I was still tired enough to ignore his wiggling and fall back to sleep. Then Eddie woke up and came in.

He whispered to Oliver, "It's your birthday!"

And Oliver stage-whispered back, "Where are all the people?"

Which served to highlight the fact that I am a crap mother who was really hoping he wouldn't realize that at this party lark? There are supposed to be OTHER people.

But maybe Eddie can count as a guest, since, while performing the forced march that is Making Oliver's Breakfast, Eddie must have been increasingly annoyed at Oliver's habit of micro-managing the organization of his breakfast cereal. From the bedroom, I can only ascertain that a level of shove took place, and which point Oliver shrieked, "YOU'RE NOT MY BIG BROTHER ANYMORE!"

Let's hope that my theory holds true about how even-numbered ages are more pleasant than odd-numbered ages. Happy fourth birthday, Oliver!

And happy mumbly-mumbled birthday, Mom!

Catching Up

noreply@blogger.com (amy) — Sat, 02 Jun 2007 01:08:00 +0000

Holy crap, it's been a whole month since my last post. I knew it had been a while, but I tend to lose control of the days in the second part of May, in a subconscious attempt at slipping quietly by my father's birthday. It's incredible how much I miss him. And inconceivable that he would have turned 87 this year.

Anyway... Lots more cheerful things to discuss. Oliver, for one. My little Narcissus has named his stuffed giraffe "Oliver." I am sure that means something, but am too frightened to start googling it.

And speaking of frightening... This morning, for the first time in weeks and weeks, I had half an hour to lounge around in bed before dashing for the shower and the kitchen counter (it's illogical to hate making school lunches as much as I do). Oliver lounged with me, and his first question of the day was this:

"If people are dead, does their skin fall off?"

Which is even more alarming, if it possible for a question like that to seem MORE alarming, considering the "gift" he gave me on Wednesday. He was at the shop with me, cutting up paper (his favorite activity). He cut a strip, "wrote" on it, and screwed it up in a complicated system of folds, then presented it to me as an objet d'art. Or so I thought. Turns out it was a ring. I asked how I was supposed to put it on my finger. He took it back in order to show me and declared I had ruined it. I asked him to fix it for me, please, thus occupying him momentarily.

I then promptly forgot about the whole situation and got back to my important conversation with my work release girl (the entire week, I was unable to say "work experience" without first stumbling over "work release." I gave in to it on the second day).

A few minutes later, Oliver tapped me on the leg and held up his re-creation, which he had twisted into a tiny, sharp point:

"This is for you, Mommy, for when you need to poke the people."

Needless to say, Work Release Girl and I fell about laughing. Oh, the mirth! It was almost, just about, very nearly funny enough to drown out my alarm.

What people would I need to be poking, sweetie? The bad people. Yes, I see. Well, thank you very much, that was a very thoughtful and useful gift.

And now he wants to know if dead people's skin falls off. This is probably an appropriate spot to remind you, Dear Reader, that Oliver is THREE YEARS OLD.

Shudder now with the fear that engulfs you; what impact will this child have on the world at large? This is most certainly one of those blissfully ignorant moments.

He nearly redeemed himself, though. A few minutes after the dead people question, he asked, "What does love mean? Is it hugging?" Awwww, the cuteness. Nearly conquered by the worry about this THREE-YEAR-OLD's grasp of philosophy.

Keep shuddering. No point stopping now.

Anyway. Work Release Girl helped organize me. It was a bit like having my mom here. At one point, she glanced at me, and with uncanny perception and timing said, "I don't know how tired you are of hearing, 'What price should I put on this?'"

But she kept on, and all those baskets of unpriced stock are now cleared away into their proper (or close enough) places, and I have taught my work release charge a valuable retail lesson: sometimes it's just easier to make up the price than to locate the invoice.

So one of the things she found was a little tin money box, which was perfect, since I'd just said to Eddie the day before that we'd try to find one for him. He and I have decided that he should put all the money he finds into the tin, and at the end of one year, see how much he's got in there. I fear the tin will be grossly inadequate to the task, as he's already found a few dollars. In two days. That child finds money EVERYWHERE.

And next we need to find a big box for Leander to put his rubber bands in. What is it with that kid and rubber bands? At what point do I reasonably need to be concerned about his rubber band obsession? I meticulously dispose of all rubber bands that enter my shop, Duncan's shop, or our house, and I still pick rubber bands out of the washing machine daily.

I console myself that it is merely the disparity - Eddie with his money and Leander with his rubber bands - that highlights my fears. Perhaps Leander is a perfectly normal child, who is just made to look peculiar by his rather more fortunate (and I mean that word as literally as it is possible to mean) brother.

I hope that's what the judge says, anyway, when the day eventually arrives.